The Bastards Of Whiskey Company
by Talietzin
Summary: Whiskey Company of the Federation Army are the baddest asses on this end of Europa. Follow them as they fight against the Empire, overcome their fears and even fall in love, as they strike the heart of the Empire! Canon characters included.
1. A New War

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 01

Heroism. Love of the country. Proof of loyalty.

All the dreamy little things about war that draws soldiers into the military. Every country has its way of making young idealistic men throw away the best years of their youth…

But friends, let me tell you this.

There is nothing romantic about war.

A soldier's life is of no significance to the military as a whole.

And a soldier's mind is an institution of infinite negativity.

Today is 13th October, 1940.

The rain beats down on us as we lie in our holes, soaked to our balls in rainwater. My boots are heavy with mud and my balls itch like the devil is tearing at my skin. Every breath I take in carries the familiar scent of blood, mud and gunpowder. The fabric of my uniform, darkened by rain and stained by mud, sticks to my skin. It is a constant annoyance throughout my daily life in the field.

I stink. There was once I was on my way to the latrine and thought that some bastard might have pissed himself on the way, because of the smell. I took a sniff and found out that it was actually the smell of my own body, after not having a wash for two weeks. Out here, there is no time to rest, much less take care of personal hygiene. Defending the line is of the highest priority. Anything else is secondary.

What's that? I hear shouting. I look up to the observation post on the hill two hundred metres in front, and no sooner do I pop my head over the trench than from the observation post erupts a ball of flame, unquenched by the heavy rain. The earth rumbles; it transfers vibrations much faster than the air. And that is when I grab my rifle and lay it on the low earth wall that I have created to support my weapon as I take aim from within the muddy little hole that I now call home. Within moments, yellow tracer rounds fly to and fro. Clumps of mud are thrown into the air, and the earth threatens to numb my blistered and soggy feet with each artillery shell that lands on this battlefield.

I pull the trigger. The rifle kicks into my aching, bruised shoulder, rubbing against my uniform, which in turn rubs against my itching skin. It actually somewhat relieves the itching. But I do not think. I merely pull the trigger, heavily perspiring underneath my "steel pot" helmet. I breathe in and out, attempting to calm myself down. My glasses show no mercy; they fog up at night, especially in the rain. But I can still shoot, and shoot I shall.

Four months ago you would not have seen me doing any of this. I was a city boy, who did the morning runs delivering newspapers for a little extra cash with which to buy my darling her birthday gift. Then I was lured into this mess by the promise of money, good treatment and even adventure… What a fool I was. Thinking that it could not be so hard to pull a trigger, enjoy a meal of field rations and do some marching, I packed my bags up and reported to the nearest recruitment centre.

I look left and right. I see familiar faces. These are the men of my platoon. We are the men of the Federation 21st Rifle Division, 3rd Battalion, Whiskey Company. Only recently, I took control of 2nd Platoon, my new unit, as Platoon Commander. I was led to the improvised mess hall, where we queued up for food and sat down with trays of strangely coloured objects that they call "food". Mushy potato paste, purplish vegetables… At that time I began to think that I had gotten myself into one heck of a spot.

Little did I know then, that what I put in my mouth was truly a taste of heaven, compared to what we have suffered through thus far.

I am Lieutenant Sigurd Green.

I am a Bastard of Whiskey Company.

**1****st**** August, 1940**

**Federation 21****st**** Infantry Division Base Camp**

"Welcome to the Federation Army, recruits," greeted the platoon sergeant. He walked with poise and grace, the lanky man. He was not much taller than the average fellow, but he had a way of standing and walking that made him seem to tower over everyone else. "Second platoon, you will address me as Platoon Sergeant. I am Second Sergeant Waldemar Kaufmann. Remember my name – you will be hailing it, calling it and perhaps even cursing upon it. For the next four weeks – or until you die – I will be your platoon's ranking sergeant."

He said this without hostility, and without a smile. He was dead serious, but bore no sternness on his face. Recruits, already forming cliques, began talking to each other, making comments about him and about their living conditions.

"Gentlemen. This is a military camp, not your sister's bedroom. Unless you'd like to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves I suggest you keep your mouths shut," added Waldemar. "Now, I want all of you to go into your bunks, grab your helmets and webbing, and be back out here in one minute."

"But Platoon Sergeant, isn't that asking for a bit too much?" asked one of the men, meekly raising a hand.

Waldemar, expression unchanging, looked at the recruit with a sort of curiosity. He blinked twice in a deliberate fashion, before he raised his left hand and snapped his fingers, ending the act with an index finger pointing at the platoon in general. "Make it happen." He paused for effect… It was good to let something new and significant sink into the minds of recruits. "Your minute starts now. Move!"

A storm of footfalls descended upon the barracks, as the men rushed into their bunks to grab their items from their footlockers. Quickly, they assembled outside. Most knew that they would not all make it out in time, and were fully expecting punishment. Mumbles and grumbles, shouts and cries went about the courtyard as recruits urged members of their platoon to hurry up and assemble. Waldemar stood in front of his platoon, section commanders by his side. One of them opened his mouth, but Waldemar raised his hand slightly. The section commander decided to keep quiet for the moment.

"Whiskey Company!" exclaimed the platoon sergeant, drawing the attention of every recruit in all four platoons. All eyes were upon him, and silence flooded the courtyard. "You are fighting amongst each other. You blame each other for being too slow. Instead of telling each other what to do, and encouraging each other to move, you simply push the blame onto someone else. Gentlemen, **this is war.** You're not carrying wooden toys with rubber bands and shouting 'Bang!' as you go. People will die in this war. Starting now, you will learn to love your platoon. You will help each other. You will push each other on when you are weak. You will become brothers. Because out there, when the bullets fly, each other is all you will have. One mistake can cost the lives of your entire platoon."

Those words sank deep into the hearts of many. Many, but not all. Black sheep are everywhere… Especially in the military.

"Your signature touched the line, Recruit," said the duty armoury sergeant, Third Sergeant Nikolai said, thrusting the rubber end of his pencil into the chest of one of the recruits. The shocked fellow leaned forward, flabbergasted. What did his signature touching the lines of the box in which he was to sign out his weapon have to do with anything?

"Sergeant, what does that have to do with anything?"

"When you sign out your weapon, you sign out neatly! It makes my life easier if I don't have to present an untidy armoury record book to the officer commanding. You'll accompany me in the armoury tonight – as will anyone else whose signature touched the line. We'll be cleaning rifles. If you think it's an easy job…" Nikolai grinned. "Think again. Now, I could physically punish the rest of you as a platoon for this. I could vent my anger by making you run. But why? If I make you run, you grow fitter. If I make you do push-ups, you grow stronger. What for?"

He pulled out a stack of papers from the folder he carried in his hand. "This is a stack of nominal rolls. The boxes in these papers are half the size of those in the armoury book. You will all sign all seven columns in line with your name, without touching the line. If you can each sign these thirty-four pages properly, you will be able to sign in my book properly as well. Hand them to me, completed, by breakfast tomorrow." Nikolai thrust the papers into the hands of a stunned recruit, and walked back to the armoury.

The platoon spent the entire evening arguing amongst each other, frustrated souls telling each other to hurry up and do the job instead of talking and laughing.

The thud of a pen hitting and bouncing off the wooden table resounded in the room. "Why the hell are we doing this shit? I didn't sign up for this. I want to kill some Imperials! I wanna get some action! This is boring, stupid shit that we shouldn't have to do! Our friends are out there fighting and here we are sitting in a camp, signing on paper!"

"Hey, this is a matter of discipline. Let's just do it and get it over with. We can argue about that later all we like. Keep the sergeants happy and they'll make your life easier. Fuck them, and they fuck you back – twice as hard." The dark-skinned man, not imposing but authoritative, continued with the signing. Men grumbled, but he was right. They continued.

0300 hours

8th August, 1940

"2nd Platoon, did I not make myself clear? When I conduct an area inspection, I expect a decent level of cleanliness! I will not wear a pair of white gloves and wipe my fingertip on the floor. That's anal. But you are taking kindness for granted! Out in the field, if you leave trash behind, the enemy knows you have been there! All they have to do is follow the trail of rubbish, find your base camp and they can _kill_ you without you knowing. I don't know about you people, but I have no intention of dying in this war."

Lectures like these were not uncommon, when it came to recruits. These fellows needed some discipline. And discipline they were given.

"The enemy has no mercy – assume as much! They are here to kill you – and if you die, you are dead. There is no Saviour to resurrect you. There are no continues. There are no respawns."

Day after day, they trained hard. The officer commanding, one Captain Radi Jaeger, pushed the men hard. He was no slave driver, but there were standards to meet.

1400 hours

13th August, 1940

"Gentlemen! If you are not going to push yourselves further then I can pretty much guarantee that you are dead! The enemy will not stop for you to rest; they will kill you as you gasp for breath!" Platoon Sergeant Kaufmann roared as the machine gunners reloaded. This course required the men to crawl underneath barbed wire, as machineguns on one side fired into a five-foot-thick wall of sand on the other, simulating an enemy attack.

First Sergeant Orlov, a young man 24 years of age, could only shake his head as he unloaded ammunition boxes from large wooden crates with his supply party. Why the Federation military would rather expend its live rounds here than on the front line was beyond him. But as Whiskey Company's Company Quartermaster Sergeant – or CQMS – he had to follow orders. These rounds were indented for use by this camp, and he had just brought them from the ammunition depot. Hell of a job to do, considering thousands of rounds were to be used.

He took a breather, leaving his men to unload the rest of the ammunition. Grabbing his file and pen, he took a seat on one of the wooden benches, laying the file out on the table and filling in the details. War was – and still is– a logistics nightmare. Responsible for all the store items inside the company store, Orlov did not like this job one bit. A thick callus had formed on his right middle finger, the result of filling in literally thousands of lines of data over the years. Every time someone borrowed an item, the borrower had to sign for it, and he had to update this in the latest company equipment record book. One borrowed item could mean three or four pages of paperwork. One missing one could potentially result in a visit to the Detention Barracks, a place that everyone dreaded.

What's more, he had to work under First Warrant Officer Sean Suvorov, a lanky, stern man rarely seen without his drill cane, cigarettes and pistol. The proud Company Sergeant Major was a reasonable man, but still difficult to satisfy. He worked closely with Orlov in order to ensure that supplies arrived and were returned in a timely and orderly fashion. They had formed a sort of working friendship over time. Outside of work, they spoke on equal terms. On the job, however, Suvorov assumed his position and enforced strict discipline.

Suvorov oversaw the storehouse and the barracks as if it were his own little empire. Whiskey Company was his pride and joy, as much as it was anyone else's. He would not allow anyone to make a mockery of it, especially not recruits.

**0400 hours**

**29****th**** August, 1940**

"Whiskey Company, fall in!"

Moments ago Whiskey Company was completely silent. Now, it was abuzz with activity, like a beehive in overdrive. Men and women hurried out of the barracks with their webbing, backpacks, helmets and rifles. Some of them bounced out of the barracks with one leg, hands on one of their boots and attempting to stuff their other foot into it. _Lost flamingos_, though Suvorov.

He watched them. They watched him, not moving a muscle. They revered his presence in complete silence, as they always had. He was both respected and feared by all soldiers in the division, more so by recruits. Without instruction, they stood ramrod straight and awaited his command as he paced the parade square, boots of shining black leather clicking with each step he took.

But now he was without his drill cane. In its place, slung across his body, was a machinegun. The sleek-looking monster could spit out 7.62mm rounds at a rate of 900 rounds per minute, with reasonable accuracy. They watched as he grabbed a drum of ammunition, loaded the weapon and pulled the charging handle back. The click of the charging handle slamming into place echoed across the parade square.

Some cleared their throats and some swallowed, as they watched Suvorov pull a cigarette from the cigarette case he kept in his lower left shirt pocket. He lit the end of the cigarette with a simple flick of his silver Zappo lighter. Holding the cap between the first joints of his second and third fingers, he flicked his wrist one more time, shutting the lighter and extinguishing the flame. He placed it in his pocket, and took a puff. He grinned. "Go on, boys and girls. Have a smoke. It might be your last."

He took another puff, savouring the taste of a cigarette in the early morning.

"We're going to war."

These young gentlemen were not alone. A few thousand miles away, someone, somewhere, was suffering a similar fate.

**Bruhl**

Welkin Gunther opened the letter in his hands. With a sigh he read through it. The first thing he saw was something that he had dreaded ever since the outbreak of EW III, just this year.

"On Her Majesty's Service," the stamp read. He cast his eyes on the rest of the letter.

_Dear __**Mr. WELKIN GUNTHER**_

_GXXXXXXXY_

_Your unit, __**Squad 7 of Gallian Millitia**__, has been activated. Report at __**1930 hours**__ to __**Fort Randgriz**__ on __**15**__**th**__** October, 1940**__. You are expected to remain on standby for an indefinite period, with no leave. Please make the necessary arrangements for your family._

_We greatly value your service to the nation of Gallia._

_Yours faithfully_

_**ELEANOR VARROT**_

_**3**__**rd**__** Regiment, Gallian Militia (Officer Commanding)**_

Welkin sighed again. "Make the necessary arrangements," he muttered, repeating the contents of the letter – uncharacteristically – somewhat sarcastically.

"But we can't," said Alicia. In her arms she cradled a little girl, not even a year old yet. "Who will take care of Isara?"

Welkin saw the worry in her eyes, and felt her pain seep into his heart. Young Isara – named after his departed sister whom he loved so much – was their only child, and there was nobody to take care of her.

"It's a problem for us," Welkin replied. "Everyone we know has been mobilised. I don't understand… how can they mobilise both husband and wife? The law dictates that this is unallowable."

Isara squirmed in her mother's arms. She could sense her father's anger, and her mother's sadness. "Do you have any ideas? Wait! How about Irene?"

"Irene? You mean Ms. Ellet?" Welkin suddenly cheered up, upon hearing of a good idea.

"Mrs. Koller," corrected Alicia with a giggle. "She's married now, remember?"

"Oh right," acknowledged Welkin with a sheepish grin, feeling silly. "But… she's overseas now. She's in Germania… she was a guest speaker on Radio Europa. I'm surprised that she's so fluent in so many languages."

"That's how she earns a living. But isn't it dangerous to be in Germania now?"

Welkin nodded with a serious face. "The Empire is right at their gates. Hopefully she can catch a plane or ship back in time. It's only a matter of time… The Empire would soon overrun them." He had been studying the situation, and despite the information blackout, he knew that the Empire was marching west. After only a few years of uneasy ceasefire, the Empire broke its agreement and attacked. This time they were under a new leader – Kaiser Sieghart von Lanzberg.

Under new management, the Empire ignored Gallia completely, marching past them and into the Federation. He could tell what the plan was already: The Empire would march straight into the heart of the Federation, the Federal Republic of Germania.

Once the Empire captured Germania, it would cement their hold on Europa.

And isolate Gallia.

**Author's Note:**

That's the end of the first chapter! I hope you'll continue to read, and tell me where I must improve my work… Do not hesitate to state your opinions. If you think there's a problem, or if there's something you like, please tell me. Reviews are crucial to improving this story for your enjoyment!

Many thanks, dear reader!


	2. Hail O Hail O Infantry!

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 02

Welkin, dressed in uniform and field pack on his back, looked nothing like the young and energetic hero that he had been at the end of Europa War II. He remembered how it went.

When the fighting ended in 1935, he returned to Bruhl with Alicia. She went and got certified as a Meister in Baking. He got a job as a teacher in the town's only high school, while she started her own bakery with the pay she had accumulated from months of meritorious military service, paid to her only months after the war's end.

Things were looking up. They married. She moved into his family home. Once things were more predictable, they had their child, young Isara. All this was possible, during the lull. The fighting on all fronts ceased once Maximillian was defeated. His wasteful use of resources had cost the Empire too much in terms of manpower, supplies and money.

He was happy to have made full use of the break, which lasted a few good years. He had been activated for both active duty and refresher training a few times in the past few years, as a result of the Empire's apparent buildup and flaunting of military might. They had once paraded their troops just outside of the Gallian-Imperial border. But once the Empire broke the ceasefire that it had brokered, he could not help feeling upset, now that he had a family of his own. He was pleasantly surprised that the Empire marched around Gallia instead, but he was very much aware that it was part of their strategy. Isolate, starve and then go in for the kill. He would have done this as well, if given command of the Imperial military.

"Lieutenant Gunther," said Captain Varrot, standing in the pouring rain. He looked at her and pulled his leather coat tighter over his body. "Welcome back." He shivered. His teeth chattered and his abdomen twitched. But he saluted anyway. She saluted back, and then stuffed her gloved hands into her coat pockets. "Come. It's a cold night tonight."

Feeling cold and miserable, he entered the officers' quarters. It felt slightly warmer inside, with the radiators lining the hallways. "Thank you for receiving me personally," said Welkin, slipping the field pack off his shoulders.

"You're a friend, Gunther. Don't mention it." She handed him the key to his office and bunk. "You know the routines. Reveille at 0600. Breakfast at your own leisure. Be outside my office by 0700 hours."

Welkin opened the door. She patted his shoulder, and walked away. The hallways and the air smelled so familiar. He remembered the smiles, laughter, screaming and crying. Flooding his mind were memories of 1935. So many good men and women had lost their lives. Those who survived were never the same again. The war had made them older.

The field pack landed by the side of his bed. He breathed in and sighed. He wondered how Isara was doing. He had left her in the care of Martha, to whom he felt he owed a huge debt now. It was a solution, but not one that he had decided on easily. She had children of her own, and now had an extra mouth to feed.

Putting his worries aside for the moment, he took off his coat, and draped it over his chair. The bunk was in one corner of his office, a private area with a window facing the parade square, a door, desk, chair, bed, cupboard and four walls. Only officers were afforded this luxury. Servicemen and NCOs were not.

He took off his outer shirt and hanged it on the bedrail. He dried his hair with his towel. Without taking off his boots, he lied down on his bed, resting his head on the pillow. It was only eight in the evening. He was tired and his heart was heavy. The depressing weather only made him feel worse. He shut his eyes. Before he realised it, he was asleep.

He awoke at five-odd, to the sound of marching. Songs were sung and boots hit the pavement with a bang. Ahh… Good old Gallian military. He actually missed this place when he decided to leave military service, those years back. It just wasn't the same again. He put on his outer shirt and straightened it out. He donned his cap, and walked out of his room for breakfast. He could not help but wonder… Would he be made to train new recruits? Or would he get to meet his old friends from Squad 7?

Jaeger, on the other hand, had his answer already.

"Sergeant Major, why are we marching?"

"Sergeant Major! How long more?"

"This is war – we're marching because we have to. No two ways about it. You'll know when we get there… Bullets will be flying over your head, giving you a new haircut," replied the sergeant major, marching alongside the leading 2nd Platoon. "Come! Let's sing a song. Follow my lead. Left, left, left, right!"

The men matched his pace, marching in step with him and echoing his timing. "Left, left, left, right!" They would also echo the words he was about to sing.

_Up in the morning, outta the rack  
Greeted at dawn with an early attack  
First Sergeant rushes me off to chow  
But I don't need it anyhow_

The Sergeant Major somehow sounded like a different man once he began singing. He poured everything he had into the song, expressing his feelings and memories as a young, cheerful and idealistic soldier through the lyrics.

_Hail O' Hail O' Infantry  
Queen of battle follow me  
An infantryman's life for me  
O' nothing in this world is free_

_From a big bird in the sky  
All will jump and some will die  
Off to battle we will go  
To live or die, hell I don't know_

_Hail O' Hail O' Infantry  
Queen of battle follow me  
An infantryman's life for me  
O' nothing in this world is free_

_Early at night its drizzling rain  
I am hit and feel no pain  
But in my heart I have no fear  
Because my CSM is here_

_Hail O' Hail O' Infantry  
Queen of battle follow me  
An infantryman's life for me  
O' nothing in this world is free_

_The mortars and artillery  
The screaming bursts around me  
Jagged shrapnel on the fly  
Kills my buddy, makes me cry_

_Hail O' Hail O' Infantry  
Queen of battle follow me  
An infantryman's life for me  
O' nothing in this world is free_

_One, Two, Three, Your Left  
Urrah!  
One, Two, Three, Four  
__**Whiskey!**_

Suvorov looked at the men. They seemed happier. They smiled, even while walking with their packs on their backs, and steel pots weighing down on their heads. Songs never failed to cheer men up even when they were tired. As a grunt himself who once marched from battlefield to battlefield, he knew this well.

Merrily the men marched on. They knew they were going to war, but none of the men and women in this group could say with full confidence that they knew what to expect. Not even Suvorov, a veteran of Europa War I and Europa War II, could say for certain. With time, everything changes. Especially war.

They sang song after song, marching and singing with anticipation. Every time they stopped to rest, conversations grew more excited, and he could see men and women growing restless. Some of them paced the grounds, while others even voluntarily stood guard, wanting something to do while waiting. They would have naturally preferred to go ahead without waiting at all. This was what they had been training for. This was the real deal, now.

On they marched, through the mud and water. Little puddles of brown water were deceitful little bastards. You might think that it'll be all right to step into them. Your foot goes in. You'll encounter mud that you think is sturdy enough to support you. Just as you lift your back leg and put your weight on the supporting leg, you suddenly find yourself knee-deep in soft mud that just sucks you in no matter how you try to pull out of it.

The mud and water stick to your pants, your boots and your socks. Then they seep inside and stick to your skin. You'll be fine for a day or two. But as time passes, your feet develop rashes. The skin wrinkles and all you can think about is cutting your feet off. If left wet and untreated, it develops into foot rot, and could eventually lead to loss of both feet.

Cruel, perhaps. But this is war.

At one point, the singing stopped. The only sounds remaining were those of the droning of the engines of the safety vehicle and supply truck, the squishing of mud underneath boots, the rattling of metal parts and the heavy panting that came from everyone as they continued marching. Bodies covered in perspiration and mud, they wondered why the singing had stopped. From the front to the back, the silence spread like dominoes crashing on each other.

While the men marched, heads hot and heavy, one platoon commander shouted loudly. "Where is the song?! Who said to stop singing?" It belonged to none other than Lieutenant Olsen, otherwise known as Company Show-off. He was the platoon commander for 2nd Platoon, the leading platoon for this march. Even Suvorov rolled his eyes, listening to the officer berate the troops under him, carrying the underlying message that they were not performing well enough for him to win favour, medals and a promotion.

"Lieutenant. If you look to your left, you will understand why," said Suvorov, as he paused. The men continued marching around the bend, turning right, as the Sergeant Major cast his gaze upon the city. The sight filled him with a sense of foreboding. The entire city was obscured by thick smoke and flames. Not a single building remained whole. Even as they marched, they could see yellow muzzle flashes. They could hear gunfire, and they could feel the artillery falling on the earth even from here. It was a vision from hell.

Many of them lived here, and in the towns nearby. They could only imagine the fate that had befallen their comrades and families. The shock of watching burning Federation airplanes fall from the sky with tails of fire silenced everyone. They could only watch, mouths wide open, as Imperial aircraft levelled the city with a rain of bombs.

All this, while they were marching.

"Corporal Davis!" exclaimed Jaeger, turning back. He faced Whiskey Company, raising a clenched fist. The men stopped marching, and all of them took a seat, panting for breath and thirsting for a drink of water. His signaller came running right up. As usual, he had something to say. He wasn't nicknamed Radio Radi for nothing.

"Yes, Sir! What'll be your order this afternoon? Double cheeseburger set meal with an apple pie side dish?"

"No time for wisecracks, David. Call 21st Division HQ," said Jaeger, addressing the corporal by his first name. David Davis was a talkative but efficient signaller. He was able to talk to just about anyone, able to pick out important pieces of information, and see what the other party was really saying instead of the words that came out of their mouths. Jaeger took the handset from the signal set.

"Colonel, Sir – Whiskey Company is in position, ready to strike. What are your orders?"

"Captain Jaeger. I've just – and I mean just thirty seconds ago – received new orders."

"And what are those orders, Sir?" asked Jaeger. His heartbeat increased and his stomach danced around inside him, anticipating the next words to come. Would they be ordered into battle? Where? Could these recruits be trusted to perform their duty now, after just a few weeks of training?

"Whiskey Company is to withdraw. Immediately."

"Sir, please say again."

"Withdraw immediately to 21st Infantry Division's new base camp. Your unit has been reassigned. The rest of 21st Infantry Div. will participate in the battle."

Jaeger was silent. He took in a deep breath, and sighed with a nod of his head. "Yes, Sir. Order acknowledged. Over and out."

"Sir, what are your orders?" asked Lieutenant Olsen, standing straight and proud. _Heh. Overeager young man._ Jaeger smiled a little, remembering how he used to be.

"I'm afraid I have to disappoint all of you. We've been pulled back from the front lines – we're going to the 21st Division's new base camp."

"What?! Are you serious?!"

"Orders straight from the Colonel. We don't have a choice."

"But Sir! We've been training for this!" Olsen insisted, indignant. He had not marched here since dawn just to be turned back and marched off somewhere else. "Don't take this away from me! …I mean, us."

He wanted to say something about Olsen right there and then, but Jaeger decided against it. It would not be healthy for anyone there. "I can't allow you to waste their lives for personal glory, Olsen. But if you want to go alone, it's just more paperwork for me to do, and a posthumous two-rank promotion for you."

Suvorov took the cigarette from between his lips with two fingers, and chuckled. "You'll get your chance to die, lieutenant. We all will." He looked up, squinting. He heard a whistle and immediately dropped himself. In an instant, he crouched, rested his weight on his left hand, and kicked both legs out, lying flat on the ground. "Take cover!"

His shout of warning was drowned completely by the explosion that followed. "Spread out and take cover!" he yelled again. His head was jolted up and down, inducing a massive headache. The men spread out as ordered, seeking shelter between trees and in roadside ditches. Though those ditches were full of dirty water and all kinds of disgusting muck, they were the safest places to be, in the event of an artillery attack.

Amazingly, there were few casualties. Only a few wounded, but no dead… yet.

And without warning, there came a great cry from within the forest. Along with those cries came the sound of uncountable guns of varying calibres, opening fire all across the line. Bullets cut through the trees, and Suvorov angrily pulled his machinegun in front of him, bracing the weapon against his shoulder. He deployed the bipods that supported the heavy thing, as he yelled to the men.

"Whiskeys, return fire!" he pulled the trigger twice, cutting an Imperial soldier down. He turned to look at Olsen, who was shivering on the ground, fumbling with his rifle and completely failing at disengaging the safety mechanism. "Lieutenant, this is your chance." Suvorov chuckled to himself, turning back to operate his machinegun.

"We can't hold here – we have to pull back. Sean, hold the line with Platoon 2. Platoons 1, 3 and 4, come with me!" Jaeger moved, and his men followed. They went through tall grass the height of a man, gathering at the top of a slope leading west. Here they concealed themselves, forming a line 100 metres long to cover the retreat of Platoon 2.

"Come, boys – we're moving! We won't last, here!" ordered Suvorov, packing up and taking off. He lay on the right side of the base of a tree, covering his men as they retreated. Olsen was among the first to arrive.

"Why are we retreating? We can take them!"

"Your recklessness is going to get everyone killed. Find cover and cover their retreat!" Under stress, Sean Suvorov was a man who took command. He wrestled control from his circumstances, and strangled them to death without mercy. This time, however, he would have to let them go.

As quickly as they could, Whiskey Company retreated from the battle, overwhelmed and without support. The idea was to reduce losses as far as possible; they had not even participated in a mission yet. By the time they had tactically retreated far enough west, they were back on a dirt road, marching through the night.

"Look at him. He sits in that truck of his while we're out here marching to the base," griped Private Mitchell. The stocky, short man grumbled as he observed Orlov, who was seated in the relative comfort of the truck. In the passenger seat was Third Sergeant Jeremy Jericho, the company's medical specialist. "Those two are always together. Slackers."

"Don't insult them, man. They're vital to our survival. Have you ever seen Sergeant Orlov miss a delivery? He's always been on time, and brings exactly the supplies we need. We're never short on water."

"That's all he does. Did you see him around when we came under attack outside the city? No. We found him in the damned truck later, while we were marching."

"Think about why, then. He was safeguarding our supplies – all the water, food and ammunition. He's even ferrying the wounded in the back of the truck now. Who do you think indents our food, water, ammo and clothing, anyway?"

"That's all that he's done. You can bet your rifle he'll be the first to run when the bullets fly. He'll be the first one out, last one to return."

**Hill 323**

**31****st**** August, 1940**

"We can't let them take that position. We're going up there, and we'll hold it. Individual platoon commanders, take your men up the hill. Once there we'll reinforce the detachment from the 15th Infantry," instructed Jaeger, making eye contact with all the lieutenants around him. He observed that some of them seemed apprehensive towards this idea. Naturally, Lieutenant Olsen was an exception. He was more than eager to use his men for his own benefit.

Lieutenant Filipova spoke. "Sir, I do not feel that it is in our best interests to act without consulting our commanding officer," she said, voicing her concerns. Jaeger nodded, acknowledging what she said. The Federation army was a very regimental one, with a strict code of conduct and military laws to abide by. He was about to speak, when interrupted by Suvorov.

"Lieutenant, Ma'am, you have to understand that the more time is wasted, the more men will die upon that hill. When it comes to war, things are nowhere near as pretty as they are on paper in peacetime." A grinning Suvorov took off, moving to organise the men and the supply party. Filipova, with minimal actual battle experience, could not argue against a veteran of two major wars. EW II had ended – or so they thought – only recently. This felt a lot like a continuation of that continental confrontation.

In individual platoons and sections, they advanced up the hill, bayonets affixed on their rifles. In the dying light they climbed and broke through thin enemy lines, taking them by surprise. The enemy encirclement was little more than a wall of rice paper; the 15th Infantry Division had been surrounded on this hill by only two companies of Imperial troops. This was estimated based on the distribution of men on the southern slope, from which they were approaching.

But the situation of the 15th Infantry Division was more dire than expected. The 21st Infantry division climbed the hill expecting to reinforce a battered infantry division. They reached the 15th Infantry Division to find little more than a platoon's worth of living, albeit half-dead men. Ravens cawed, communicating to each other that there would be fresh meat for them soon.

Quickly, they used what infrastructure the 15th Infantry Division left behind, as they retreated down the slope. There were utterances of well wishes, as well as comments such as "Good luck, kids. You'll need it."

Jaeger went over the plans in his head. They had taken this hill, because it overlooked a major road intersection, farming town and bridge… and more. To the east was a flowing river. This place would make an excellent command post, if not for the fact that the majority of territory in this area of operations was occupied by the enemy. From what he'd gathered from the 15th Infantry Division, they were up against a battalion from the Empire's First Mechanised Infantry Division.

They were isolated, up against an entire battalion, outnumbered at least six to one. They had no armoured vehicles, and little anti-tank capability. The antitank guns and rockets that still functioned were repositioned so that they overlooked most of the roads and the intersection. Ammunition for them, however, was low, and Whiskey Company was not equipped for antitank warfare.

The day does not end until the Officer Commanding says it ends. Jaeger gave the order for sentries to be posted, and for one platoon to split into their individual sections, to do patrolling. Olsen volunteered immediately. His frustrated and exhausted subordinates threw comments and insults. Some even smashed rifle butts on the ground. After a long, long march and a climb up the hill, they were looking forward to getting some rest for the night. Now, their hopes for rest had been dashed by their overzealous platoon commander, who was always volunteering his men for every possible duty outside of what was required.

Duty platoon of the day assigned, Whiskey Company dispersed to assume their positions. Jaeger, in the meantime, had the dubious honour of figuring out how long they could last with their current provisions, and what course of action they would take as the inevitable siege progressed.

Needless to say, whatever the case, the end result was the same.

**Death.**


	3. Arrowhead

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 03

"Welcome to muddy hell," muttered Mitchell as his boots slid around in the mud. The ground underneath the mud was solid, but he could not stand still. It had the consistency of melting butter, and his boots provided little traction.

He made sure that only Corporal Kavi could hear him. The dark-skinned Darcsen did his best to silence his laughter, greatly amused by Mitchell's inability to keep still. His pearl-white teeth – his trademark killer smile – gave him away. "You, my friend, are a sad character. I only ever hear you complaining."

"Yeah? I'm negative. I'm seventeen. So charge me," snapped Mitchell, putting an invisible frown upon his face as he stepped through the vegetation behind his comrades. "Join the Army. It'll be fun. Bullshit. I haven't seen real action since basic. That one time after the march didn't count. We got our asses kicked. Then we march non-stop all the way to this pile of shit in the middle of nowhere, surprising the Imperials. That isn't a real fight. On top of that, our genius lieutenant decided to volunteer us for sentry duty. I'm tired. My back aches and my head's heavy from all this weight on me."

Kavi shook his head with a smile still on his face. _My, oh, my. What a blunt and sarcastic fellow._ He had not changed one bit since they first met at the recruitment centre. "You should have seen how eager you were back then. Your eyes were as bright as stars. You couldn't wait to become a soldier."

"I was an idiot. I can't wait to get outta here. Fuckin' Lieutenant Olsen can go kill himself. Always pushin' us hard and puttin' on a show for the Captain." He grudgingly pushed aside a large fern and continued following the man in front of him. He could barely see anything in the darkness. "He should be here to go through this with us. He's got balls so high up that everyone knows he's showing off. Least he can do is back it up."

Suddenly, the column halted. Mitchell walked right into the preceding man's back, helmets making contact. _What the hell?_ He heard nothing, save the squishing and sloshing of mud. Suddenly, Mitchell felt a fast and hard slap to his helmet. It made a loud but dull clang, and staggered him.

"Are you done?" hissed Waldemar, his voice full of displeasure. "Congratulations, Private Mitchell. You've just earned your first point man duty. You will be point man on this patrol. When we take over 3rd Platoon, you will man the Observation Post."

Kavi grinned to himself. _Poor Mitchell._

"Don't smile too soon, Kavi. You'll be manning the OP with him."

Kavi's eyes widened and his finger pointed to his face. "What the… Me? Why? I wasn't talking to him!" he lied.

"If you weren't next to him, he wouldn't be talking. You listen to his bullshit the most. And since the two of you like each other so much, I'll let you two man the observation post. _Together_." Kavi felt Waldemar's presence fade away, and the column walked on.

_Ah, damn it. Kaufmann's right. Can't argue with that… But what kind of fucked up logic is that? Why am I agreeing and disagreeing with what he says? Doctrine and opinion. Conflicting._ Kavi shook his head, following Mitchell to the front of the line while the latter continued cursing and swearing under his breath. He could not help feeling indignant. He wouldn't be getting any rest anytime soon.

***

Third Sergeant Francisco Tarrega led his mortar teams to the location that the OC had assigned. They had to get to work quickly. "Come, men. Use these craters. It'll make digging a lot easier." He directed his subordinates, assigning each team a specific location. "Space out a little. That'll prevent you getting all killed at once."

"We know, Sergeant, we know. Not the first day we've been mortar men," replied one of the men. "Say. I'm tired. Could you take over?" He smacked the blade of the entrenching tool – or E-tool – into the black soil.

Francisco nodded, looking hard for the handle of the E-tool in the darkness. "What's the matter sarge? Can't find it without a light?"

How infuriating! "Shut up," he snapped before taking hold of it. _I won't be made a fool of by my subordinates._ He raised the tool over his head, smashing it hard and fast into the earth. It was a simple and effective tool. The blade was curved just a little bit, and ended in a thick oval-shaped cylinder, which was oriented perpendicular to the blade. The handle, a tapered wooden pole, was put through the cylinder small end first. The other end was larger to secure the handle and blade together while in use. It was cheap, effective, simple to use and easy to disassemble.

He pushed forward on the handle after it was deep in the earth. The laws of physics made it fast and almost effortless to dig. A small push lifted up a big clump of dirt. After making a thousand swings, however, your arm gets tired. Unavoidable fact.

"So, Sarge," said Private Bullock to Francisco as he rested. "Tell me about your family. Any sisters?"

"My sister's nine years old, you dick."

Bullock looked at the faint silhouette of Messaoud, who was obviously having a good time, judging by the white crescent upon his face. Somehow, he always had the impression that Sergeant Francisco was a virgin and mama's boy all at once. "Damn. Any cousins, then?"

"I never knew you were into little girls," Francisco replied, raising the entrenching tool one more time. There was a loud clang, and then there was swearing and gnashing of teeth. Panicked, he dropped the entrenching tool.

"Holy mother of ****! Sarge! What the ****ing **** was that ****ing **** for?!" demanded Bullock, holding onto his helmet. "****! You could have ****ing killed me!" The tool had hit him hard on the top of his helmet. He was reeling from the blow. Why did he have to have such a damned klutz for a sergeant? He would've preferred to have someone more like Kaufmann as his leader. Heck, even Olsen would've been better. The Company's Hottest, Lieutenant Filipova, would have been best ,of course.

"I'm sorry, all right? Sheesh." Francisco put down the entrenching tool. He decided to make himself scarce before any trouble came his way. It was his way of getting by. Lacking in management skill, he simply avoided problems.

But as he walked away, his abdomen clawed at him and his butt puckered up tight. He needed to go, quite badly. He tuned around, still out of sight of the two men and the mortar pit. _Damn. I'll have to swallow my pride if I go back there. But I can't just let it go here. Need to dig a hole…_ Deciding that digging with his bare hands would be more than disgusting, he swallowed hard as if swallowing all the pride he had in one go. Indecisive, he paused for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he walked back towards the pit, where Bullock and Messaoud were putting the final touches on the dugout.

Bullock eyeballed the sergeant as he returned, clutching his stomach. _What does he want now? Asshole just hit me on the head…_ "Bullock, I need your E-tool."

"Sure thing, Sarge," Bullock sarcastically replied. "Here, go hit somebody else on the head with it. Try not to kill him."

"Hey, I apologised," Francisco snapped again, grabbing the tool by the handle. "Didn't _want_ to be born a klutz."

"Unfortunately for us, that's just what you are," teased Messaoud. "I haven't got toilet paper."

"That's fine. I'll just use some leaves."

They watched Francisco disappear into the trees. "Give the poor sergeant a break," Messaoud said to Bullock, once certain that Francisco was out of earshot. "He's done a decent job of keeping us out of trouble so far. Look at 2nd Platoon with their Sergeant Nikolai. He's done nothing so far but assign extra duties and kick up a fuss about untidy record books. He's arrogant, sarcastic and never satisfied."

"Yeah. But having an indecisive and weak-minded leader isn't much better. Take the Sergeant Major or the OC for instance. They're both about the same age. They survived both EW I and EW II. Not only that, they make decisions on the fly and are more than capable of influencing people without abusing their power as officers."

"That's right. Sergeant Tarrega's doing his best too. We're all young, here. We've got to learn and cooperate. War's tough enough as it is. Why make it harder?"

***

White noise filled Jaeger's ears as he took a seat next to Davis. Suvorov was making his rounds, personally checking on the men. If they were lacking in supplies, he would be sure to give Orlov a good licking.

Jaeger downed what water was left in his canteen. "Tired, Sir?"

"Quite. I've been awake for far too long, running on too little food and water. My brain still thinks that my body is 20 years old."

"You aren't old, Sir. The Sergeant Major is," joked Davis. Jaeger chuckled softly.

"Don't let him hear that. What makes you think he's old?"

"It's that scowl he puts on his face. Add in the cigarettes and the regimental way he manages us, and you've got an old man. Still amazes me that he can march longer and faster than most of us."

"No use running, either. He covers one and a half miles in nine minutes. He's also an active marathon runner. On top of that, he's only 43 years old. I'm 41."

"Are you serious, Sir? You seem so much more… youthful."

"Yes. I'm proud of that. I'm vain that way," he replied. Davis grinned widely, with a nod. "All right, Sir. I need to see the CQ. I'll be back soon." Davis pulled the manpack signal set over his shoulders, took hold of his rifle and left the command post.

Jaeger looked up at the night sky. Crickets did their thing in the background while he looked up, wondering if Maximilian and Selvaria were among the stars.

_Maximilian… You were arrogant. But you were a leader. You had drive. Passion. Vision. You wanted more than just Gallia. You wanted power. The power to obtain absolute freedom. The freedom to exact vengeance on your father. But you, in your madness, gave your life away… and with it, your only opportunity. Think about where it left me, as I sit in this muddy hole, remembering how bitter I was when I lost my chance to gain autonomy for Fhirald._

Nostalgia. He remembered Fhirald. The architecture, the beautiful woods and snow-capped mountains… and of course, the women. Imperial women were pretty good. Federation ladies were on equal terms. But nothing can beat the taste of home.

"Which woman tonight?"

Jaeger chuckled again. The Sergeant Major knew him too well.

"I think about all of them… I remember every face. Every name. Every ecstatic voice reaching the height of pleasure… They all mean something to me."

"I'm sure, I'm sure." Suvorov kept his laughter soft.

Jaeger did not say anything more about women. He knew better than to do that. Suvorov had a beautiful wife and four teenage daughters. _Had_. He married after EW I. His daughters were a ripe 16 years old, by 1935. He never heard the full story, though…

"I know what you're thinking. No need to hide it," said Suvorov, puffing on his cigarette. "EW II made me the way I am."

"We shouldn't talk about it if you don't want to."

"No. It's fine." One more puff. He dropped the cigarette butt and extinguished it with his boot. He breathed out, and the smoke filled the command post. "The Empire attacked. My family stayed at home, while I was deployed to the front line. Beautiful wife and four lovely teenage daughters. I went AWOL for a few hours to look for them once I was close enough to my town. I returned home to see my house in pieces. I panicked. I searched for them. I found my wife. Then one by one, in their rooms, I found three of my daughters. All – even my wife – had been stripped. My youngest child… she wasn't there. Lost to the Empire. She was only fourteen."

Jaeger nodded, allowing Suvorov to rant. It was in these quieter times that the Sergeant Major showed a more human side. His manly, confident exterior was the manifestation of his hate and his anger. That was all that could be shown to the men and to the enemy – anything less, and he would lose respect. He needed him to be a badass in front of the men.

"You, Sir, are a good commander," stated Suvorov, after a pause.

"What makes you feel that way?"

"You're able to connect with the men. You've turned some meek little boys into astounding leaders over the past year. Some men, like Kavi and Tarrega, returned to Whiskey Company after their specialist training. I've personally talked to them… and they came back because they believe in you."

"I'm just doing what my heart tells me. I'm here in this army, anyway. Might as well do the best job I can of it."

"Don't be modest, Sir. They were rowdy, undisciplined and uncouth. They couldn't shoot straight to save their lives. They didn't understand tactics and couldn't be bothered to do their jobs. Nobody respects or likes such soldiers. You inspired and encouraged them. You took the worst outfit in the whole Federation military, and restored its reputation. That, Sir, is mastery of command."

Flattered, Jaeger did not deflect Suvorov's sincere compliment. He smiled, and decided to switch topics. "Actually, I've always wondered… why do you smoke?"

Suvorov grinned smugly and pulled out a cigarette. "First, it feels good. We're issued cigarettes anyway. Federal National. Second…" He paused for effect, putting the cigarette between his lips and lighting it. He shut the lighter and put it into his pocket. "It reassures the men. Makes them think you know what you're doing."

From the first day he took over, he had found Suvorov to be very approachable, though he was stern. Jaeger had earned his trust by first stating that he had not been born within the Federation. Suvorov's intense hate for the Empire and the knowledge that he had once been in the service of the Kaiser made it very difficult to work together. His eyes were coloured.

"I'm back, Sir!" announced Davis gleefully, putting his butt down next to Jaeger. "Went to get some food. No new reports from anywhere…" His eyes became fixed on Suvorov. His throat contracted and he stood still, stiff as a block of wood. "Sergeant Major!" he squeaked, suddenly tense.

"Stop quaking, Davis. It's not like you. Back in EW I, my company's radio operator, only a lance corporal, once scolded the shit out of a lieutenant who didn't follow voice procedure."

"Davis, roger, over."

"Suvorov, out." Suvorov got to his feet, heading towards 2nd platoon's part of the line.

From here you can see every damned thing that goes on for miles on end. With good binoculars you can see the little girl doing the laundry. You can see the young man sneaking past Imperial soldiers, climbing into the window of his lover's house. You watch as Imperial troops beat up an old man, probably demanding that he lower the price of this morning's bread.

"Tell me now, boy. What do you fight for?" asked Suvorov. Olsen, uncaring as he was, only shrugged as he put down the binoculars.

"I don't care. Seriously. They live; they die. It's not my problem. I want to kill some Imperials. I want to see some real action!" His eyes told Suvorov that he was hungry for blood. Grinning to himself, Suvorov nodded, understanding the feelings of the testosterone-charged young man. He, too, had been like this once, itching for action after the completion of his basic training. Keep a soldier fighting imaginary enemies for long enough and he starts thinking that he can kill anyone.

Jaeger picked up the handset, having confirmed that 21st Division Headquarters was on the line. "Hotel Quebec, this is Whiskey Six. Do you read? Over."

A woman's voice greeted his ear. "Whiskey Six, this is Hotel Quebec. Go ahead. Over."

"We are in position on Arrowhead," said Jaeger, using the codename for the position they were holding, known as Hill 323 on topographic maps. "One-Five have vacated and are Oscar Mike. Over."

"You're not supposed to be there, Whiskey Six. The rest of Two-One is three days behind you."

Jaeger grinned with delight. "We are Whiskey Company, leaders of the pack. Over."

"Hold. I will relay to Two-One Six. Over." Jaeger began pacing in small steps to pass the time, while he waited for the company's busiest man to get on the line.

"Whiskey Six, this is Two-One Six. Withdraw immediately," the Colonel commanded.

Jaeger shook his head as he answered, expressing himself completely, as though the colonel were before him. "Negative, Sir. We will not pull back from this position. It is vital to maintaining our war effort," he insisted, calmly. "From here we can spot for artillery. Arrowhead dominates this entire region. We'll regret it if we let the enemy take this position."

"You realise that if you remain there, you risk the lives of 200 men and women, including your own. Do you not?"

"Yes, Sir. We know."

"You'll be without any support until tomorrow evening, when you might be able to call in artillery. We'll need at least three days to get there. You may be completely surrounded by the time we arrive."

"We're willing to risk it."

"Fine. Then you hold that position. Give me regular reports. I want to be up to date on your positions, strength and supply situation."

"Wilco. Out." Jaeger returned the handset to Davis, who placed it back in the pouch by the side of the pack carrying the signal set.

"So… we're going to be stuck here for a while, eh?" asked Davis, heaving a sigh. Somehow, although he was expecting this, he didn't want to be here.

"Yeah. Don't look forward to the next few days. A lot of us are going to die," Jaeger answered flatly. He did not want to bullshit anyone, faced with such a situation. Though right he was, nobody wanted to believe it.

***

"You, Olsen, are insufferable!" stated Filipova, prodding him in the collarbone with her index finger. "You're arrogant, you're sarcastic, you use your men to your benefit and worst of all, you are a suck-up!"

Olsen opened his arms and raised his chin as if challenging her. "What's your problem, Katrina? You do the same thing too. Everyone knows how much you like the OC and how much he loves women. Who knows whether you slept with him to get your post as Company Second-In-Charge." His vision blurred, and he felt a sting on the side of his face. "You just hit me…"

"Go on. Charge me. We'll see who the court believes: A contemptuous, arrogant bastard or me, a woman, who will accuse you of outrage of modesty, among other things." She spat on his boots and hurried away, not interested in any of his bullshit.

_Bitch._ _To think that they call her Company Hottie._ He couldn't stand how she just _always_ had to do everything right. Or how she always _appeared_ to do things right. She was too damned smart for her own good.

Filipova returned to her shellscrape, and got to work expanding it into a foxhole. She put down her field pack on ground level, quickly putting together her entrenching tool. Tightening the chin strap on her helmet and supporting her rifle with her left hand, she raised the E-Tool overhead. She held her breath and swung it into the ground, thereafter letting her breath out in a sigh-like manner. She did it again. The process was boring, repetitive and back-breaking. It was a lot of effort, and the position would probably be abandoned in just minutes. It would, however, give her a better chance of survival.

To keep herself going despite her tiredness, she imagined Olsen's face on the ground. Each time she attacked the soil, she was adding new features to his face. _Pompous bastard. Uncouth, sarcastic jerk!_ She punished the earth with her E-tool as she would have punished his face. He was deserving of such treatment.

"Angry with someone, lieutenant?" asked Jaeger, squatting down to her right. Caught off-guard, she dropped her E-tool. She nervously looked around.

"Ahh.. Yes, Sir," she replied, clearing her throat. Covered in mud and perspiration, she felt very unpresentable. "Please, come in."

Jaeger felt as if he had just been invited into her house. He slid into the hole. "What's bothering you?"

"It's Olsen. I can't stand him. He's been quite obedient until now."

Jaeger was intrigued. "Tell me more."

"He asked me for sexual favours. I told him to go to hell."

_Directness. Good._ "I see. Can you handle him on your own?"

"As long as he keeps his hands off me, I'll be fine."

Jaeger smiled, delighting in the attitude and energy that she had. She was classy and full of spirit. She was beautiful, and confident that she could do her job. Such women were so rare and wonderful.

1800 hours

East flank OP

"Who's your favourite girl?" asked Kavi. He was bored out of his mind. Guard duty was incredibly tiring business, because one spends hours sitting in a cold, muddy hole doing… absolutely nothing. He rubbed his hands together and blew hard on them, the warmth of his breath surrounding his fingers.

"Plenty of hot girls… from 1st Platoon, maybe Susanna," said Mitchell. "I'd hit that any day."

"No, you moron. I mean a girl you really like. Not just one who's pretty."

"Hmm…" Mitchell pondered. Was there a girl that made him really excited? Of course there was. But could he say it, really? It was embarrassing because it seemed like a silly answer. "Filipova." He said it, and fully expected to be laughed at because everybody would say the same thing.

"Whoa. Everybody knows she's Jaeger's property. She won't let anyone have her."

"Yeah. But so what? A man can dream. She's pretty. She's sexy. Everybody wants her."

"You can dream, boy, but dreams are just that." Kavi felt his eyelids grow heavy. He yawned silently, feeling his eyes dry up. His body was past the point of fatigue. He was so tired that he had forgotten how it was to be tired. He looked at the treeline, and then at the sky. White clouds seemed to act like sponges, soaking up the orange rays of the setting sun. Ravens circled overhead. If not for the sight and stench of bodies from both sides strewn about on this mountain, one would not be able to tell the difference between a training exercise and war. "This is boring."

"Do you see anything?" asked Mitchell.

Kavi lazily scanned the trees. "No, nothing."

"I could've sworn that I saw movement."

"I would've seen it," Kavi said dismissively with another yawn. "I'm hungry." He pulled out a can of beans from his field pack. He pried open the cover and put the can against his lips. Up it went, and suddenly, the can's contents spilled all over him. Tossing aside the shredded metal, he ducked into the hole. Bullets travelled over his head. He grabbed his things and tossed a grenade in the enemy's general direction. With Mitchell, he retreated uphill.

"Stand to! Stand to!"

The call to stand to was sounded. Ladies and gentlemen spilled their drinks and rations for this special event, which everybody hated. Weapon safety mechanisms were disengaged. Sergeant Waldemar personally checked each and every man's weapon. New privates still could not be trusted to know the safety regulations inside out, especially under such circumstances.

The hill shook from the bottom up, rocked by an early evening dinner of artillery bombardment. Every inch of the hill had been pre-sighted for enemy indirect fire. As evidence, not a single green-leafed tree remained standing. They had been cut down and laid on the ground, charred and forgotten.

"Enemy attack! They're hitting the west flank!"

"3rd and 4th Platoons, spread out and lay down heavy fire. 2nd Platoon, we're going west." Jaeger took long and quick strides, breathing deeply as he sped across the blackened, pock-marked hillside. Platoon runners relayed the instructions to their respective platoons, while 2nd Platoon followed directly behind the captain.

Jaeger's battle plan was to have his men deploy in semicircular fashion on the sides of the hill. He would remain with a platoon of men in a central position now designated the headquarters, like a fire brigade that would quickly deploy where additional firepower was required.

"Don't worry, it's only a probing attack. They want to know how much of a fight we'll put up – so give them hell!" exclaimed Suvorov, unleashing the fury of his machinegun. Like the cry of an angry mountain lion awakened from its sleep, his weapon pierced even the hardest of heart, literally and figuratively. "Pour the fire on the Imperial bastards!"

"For the Emperor! **Sieg Kaiser!**"

"DIE, KAISER!"

The shock of Federation retaliation must have shrunk their balls, because they ceased fire and pulled back. Every time the artillery stopped, it was an indicator that they were about to stop their attack.

"They're retreating! Whoohoo!"

"Yeah! Go home, Imperial swine!" yelled Olsen, shooting into the dark, at the enemy's back. Just like him, his men had had their first taste of victory. Ecstatic, they yelled with joy, taking pride in their accomplishment. This would boost morale, not by a small margin.

"Filipova, you are in charge of the west and south flanks. 2nd Platoon, follow me." Making full use of the lull, Jaeger ran back to the field headquarters. It was basically a large shellscrape with signal set and radio, for listening to news broadcasts.

The radio stopped playing its usual evening programme of music. "We bring you breaking news from the front. Arnsberg, a little town that is the anchor of the Empire's invasion, has become a battlefield. The once-peaceful farming town now houses the men of the Imperial First Mechanised Infantry Division. On a tall hill that everybody for miles around knows about, our men fight against the invaders. Brave men of Whiskey Company, 21st Infantry, have secured the superior position and are preparing to strike as we speak. Soon, Arnsberg will be liberated, free of the Empire's clutches!"

"Dramatisations. They make it sound so nice, from behind a desk. They have no idea what it's like out here," mused Davis with a chuckle.

"It's their job. Helps morale at home," said Suvorov. His cigarette flailed up and down as he spoke. "Besides, you alone aren't enough entertainment for all of us."

"This is in violation of the Military Secrets Act," hissed Olsen. Despite being overzealous, Olsen was concerned about this not because he was a good, law-abiding officer. Everyone could sense that his main concern was whether or not this leak would put his life in danger. He wanted to be alive after the battle to receive whatever medals he would earn during its course through 'meritorious service'.

"Yes, Olsen. The Imperials will be listening to these broadcasts as well. Let's hope the rest of our men get here before the Imperials do." Suvorov was near exasperation. He took a rag from his pocket and wiped his weapon with it, while he spoke to Jaeger. Orlov was seated next to him, quietly sipping from a mug of tea. "Captain, Sir. What's your plan? We're up against tough, well supplied and well rested enemies. We, on the other hand, are greatly outnumbered, outgunned and our supply line is fragile."

Orlov felt some personal responsibility for that, as if he was not doing his job, or not performing well enough to ensure that the company was in a high state of readiness for combat. His next supply run was coming up soon. Jaeger made eye contact with him, and then looked at Suvorov.

"Move the mortars farther up the hill. Adjust the positions of our men too. We'll have to cover more of our supply route. If Orlov dies, we all die."

0900 hours

DAY 3

2nd September, 1940

"Keep it coming; keep it coming!" said Francisco, cradling the crateful of mortar rounds. He handed it to the first man along the human chain. Orlov and Suvorov worked tirelessly, moving ammunition for both mortars and small arms. All of them were sweaty, rain-soaked and hungry.

Wet, tired and miserable, the situation did not look or feel good. The signal set, sheltered only by a canvas tarp inside his mortar pit, continued belching out coordinates for fire, placing ever-increasing demands on the team. "Adjust, left 50!" he shouted as he dropped himself into the pit. Beneath his boots the mud parted. He lost his balance as he pulled his foot out of the mud, falling over and hitting his head on the mortar tube. "Agh!"

Nikolai, in a nearby mortar pit, laughed. The two privates with Francisco also laughed. The sergeant was a known klutz who still got the job done in spite of his 'disability'. Francisco patted the helmet on his head. A little embarrassed, he decided to focus on work, despite knowing that others found his slip-up rather amusing.

"Where's our support? We're dying out there!" demanded Waldemar, going on one knee. He took a look at Francisco and his men. "You, he said, pointing his left index finger at one private. "You." He pointed at the other private. "And you." His finger was now pointed at Francisco. "Lay mortar fire on these map grid references. I don't care how, Make it happen. NOW." Waldemar thrust a slip of paper into Francisco's face. The latter took hold of it and, scanning it, gave a firm nod.

"How do I contact you?" shouted Francisco after Waldemar as he ran off.

"You don't. My signal set's busted," he replied before turning back and sprinting as fast as his legs would take him back to his platoon's position.

"They're attacking!" yelled a Private Mitchell. "Where the fuck is our support?" He dove into a hole, half of which was filled with rainwater, which mixed with the soil to produce black, sticky mud.

A yelp came from his right. "Ahh! I'm hit! I'm hit!" Mitchell climbed out of his foxhole, staying low and crawling across the mud. His green uniform quickly turned black. He slid into the other foxhole, weapon first. "Call the medic! I'm hit!"

Mitchell looked at Andrew with a sigh. The soldier had his right hand over his left upper sleeve. While bullets flew and cracked overhead, he pried Andrew's hand from his arm. The moaning young man continued as if he were about to die. "Shut up," scolded Mitchell, dismissing Andrew's claims of being wounded. "It's not even a flesh wound. It barely grazed you."

"But I'm hit!"

"Shut the fuck up and fire your weapon!"

"Tch… I'm really wounded! I'm not feeling well!" exclaimed Andrew, stubbornly refusing to do his part.

Mitchell shook his head. He rose from inside the hole, resting his elbows on the ground, rifle pointed in the direction of oncoming Imperial bullets. He pulled the trigger. He could feel with his whole body the power of this rifle, as it kicked into the hollow of his shoulder. He squeezed a few more rounds off, before returning to the relative safety of the hole. He pulled a stripper clip from his magazine pouch, reloading his rifle.

The soft ground shook beneath his feet. His ears rang and his joints ached. He wanted to breathe, but his lungs refused to work. He brought his hands behind his neck and tucked himself into one corner of the foxhole. "Artillery! Enemy artillery!"

"It's not theirs; it's ours!"

Mitchell looked up with surprise. He felt a firm grip underneath his arm and found himself lifted onto his feet. "Grab your rifle. Grab that retard as well." Sighing, Mitchell picked up his weapon, and pulled Andrew off his lazy, malingering ass and onto ground level.

"I'm not going anywhere! I'm safe right here!" insisted Andrew, as Mitchell pulled him out of the foxhole. Just as he said this, he fell to the ground, rolling over in the mud and holding on to his lower leg. He began yelping loudly.

"NOW you need a medic." Mitchell looked at Andrew and then at Sergeant Jeremy Jericho, who rolled his eyes and pulled Andrew over his shoulders. He walked on as if the extra weight was nothing, pulling Mitchell along with the other hand. "Where are we going?"

"We're retreating."

By Lieutenant Filipova's command, they had pulled back and were to create a second line of defence farther up the hill. They moved whatever weapons and supplies they could recover.

Jaeger received the update from Filipova's runner. He nodded and sent him off, while he sat in front of the map with a biscuit between his teeth and a mug of cold water in his hand.

He erased the pencil markings denoting the positions of his troops. Draping a canvas tarp overhead on a wooden frame had been a good move. This minor upgrade to the command post made it so much easier to do his job. He sighed; resources were so difficult to get a hold of. He actually kind of missed being an Imperial general now. It was more physically comfortable, but this was nothing new in particular to him. He'd been through worse.

As of now, he had marked out enemy positions, and those of Whiskey Company. The casualty count was increasing. In fact, the company command post was more of a casualty collection point. At the moment, there were 170 men out of 200 still capable of fighting. Of the 30 casualties, 10 were dead and 15 were heavily wounded.

Life would soon get more difficult.

Jaeger foresaw that the pile of dog tags on his field 'table' would only grow bigger.

**DAY 4**

**3****rd**** September, 1940**

"We've been delayed."

"What?"

"Yes, Jaeger. We're not there yet."

"Why not?"

"Red tape. The brass wants this to happen, and be portrayed in as politically correct a manner as possible. In fact, they want this to be both a military and political victory."

"I don't see my pay getting any higher." Jaeger grinned smugly.

The colonel laughed. He loved the smug fellow's attitude, even under stress. "Just hold out as long as you can. I'll do my best to expedite the process. Update me. What's your status?"

"We're surrounded on all sides, but we're holding fast. We have some artillery support but no air cover. We're sitting ducks if they launch an air attack. Just last night they airdropped some troops. We found out when they attacked our southern flank, cutting off our supplies. Judging by their deployments, it looks to me like they're coming in for the kill."

There was a swish, and a bang. Jaeger was thrown onto the mud, away from the signal set. "Artillery! Artillery! Take cover!" yelled Suvorov, diving into a hole. Just his luck. He now shared a hole with Private Mitchell and Private Andrew.

"I can't take it anymore! We're all going to die!" screamed a panicked Andrew, withdrawing into one corner of the foxhole.

"Shut up!" hissed Mitchell. He was exasperated now. Suvorov almost laughed. He would have, if not for the seriousness of the situation.

Andrew was right.

The shelling continued. Suppressed and disoriented, Whiskey Company held fast, curling up in their holes. Artillery was only the beginning. Soon after, the real attack would come.

The barrage ended.

There was silence.

Two long blows on a whistle.

"That's the signal to regroup. Come, boys. We're going mountain climbing." Suvorov peeked over the rim of the hole. He climbed out, launching into the air and onto the ground. Mitchell followed, while Andrew continued cowering in the hole. "Don't even bother. If he wants to die first, let him. Let's go." The Sergeant Major took off, not even bothering to look back. Live or die. Your choice.

"Where's the CQ?" enquired Mitchell, following Suvorov up the hill. "I haven't seen him since he brought the last cache of supplies." Suvorov did not answer. "I knew it. He ran off to save his ass."

Suvorov, though strict and feared, was reasonable. He stopped and put a hand on Mitchell's shoulder. "Don't you talk about him like that.

He's the lifeblood of Whiskey Company.

Believe in that, even if you don't believe in him."


	4. Tonight's Gonna Be A Long, Long Night

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 05

**Point 180**

**180m above sea level**

**Arrowhead**

Jaeger gathered his platoon commanders. "Report," he commanded.

"Platoon 1 is at half strength. 25 still combat fit. 27 dead. 8 heavily wounded."

"Platoon 2 is at 75%. 30 men ready to fight. 6 dead, 4 wounded."

"Platoon 3 is in pieces. 20 men, combat ready. 30 dead."

"Platoon 4 isn't in good shape. We only have 21 men. 9 missing, 5 wounded, 15 dead."

This was bad news to Jaeger's ears. He had to think of something. His scouts had reported sighting enemy armour getting ready for an attack. Very soon they would be locked in a ring of steel.

Only about 100 men and women were ready to fight. Filipova raised a hand, and Jaeger nodded. With his permission, she spoke. "Sir, I recommend breaking out. We can gather the forces we have now, and break through the enemy with a solid downhill attack."

Jaeger nodded, acknowledging fully her suggestion. "That's correct. But I'll have to reject the idea."

Filipova did not receive this well. Her eyebrows came together in frustration. "Sir, why?"

"We have to hold this position. Our effort will save the rest of the army a lot of blood and sweat. Also, we are tired, thirsty and hungry. We have a lot of wounded. Our signal sets are either out of power or broken. Night is coming, and we are in no physical or mental state to go on the run. Even if we do break through, our wounded will never make it. We will hold here."

It was decided. There was no changing his mind. Besides that, Jaeger was known to have been an Imperial general. He never told others about why and how he became part of the Federation's forces, but he instilled in people under his command a sense of confidence and trust. With such credentials backing him, there was little to oppose his judgement with.

***

Mitchell yawned. Quietly, of course. He had been awoken at 0200 hours, by none other than the Company Show-off. Cold, dry-eyed and tired, he was furious. But now, he couldn't be bothered. He was here because he had no choice but to be awake.

"Listen to me, boys and girls. You've got 30 men, including Olsen. This is a fine number, by any standards. What we're gonna do now dates thousands of years back. We're conducting an old-fashioned ambush," explained Suvorov. "You will split into sections. Olsen, oversee the mission, but listen to what I say. Kaufmann, you're my direct line to the men."

Waldemar nodded. Olsen felt like his rank was being ignored. Lieutenants, after all, were technically of higher rank than warrant officers. Seniority, however, counted for something. The sergeant major knelt down to the makeshift map of rocks and sticks. One path led uphill, splitting into two smaller paths. "Look at this from my perspective – downhill. The enemy will split in two at this fork."

His finger hovered over the fork. "Section 1 will ambush them from here. You will be hidden amongst the broken trees. Darkness is your friend. Section 2, here. On the right side of the other path. You'll hide in tall grass, with me. Both sections will wait until they are directly facing the flanks of the advancing Imperials. Section 3 will split in two to cover the two sections from their positions. Section 4 – machinegun detail – will split into two groups. You will be able to fire on any position in this sector. Focus fire on the opposite path. This creates a crossfire in a huge oval-shaped killing zone. Sharpshooters will hang back and provide cover. I will lead the ambush personally, with Section Two."

"Sergeant Major, how are you so certain that the enemy will come running up the path? Wouldn't it be smarter to just come up from our sides? We'll be exposing our flanks and backs."

Suvorov nodded. Then he made eye contact with Waldemar. "Trust me, they'll come from the front.

***

Crouched in the grass, they kept their eyes open. Mitchell gasped as quietly as he could for breath. He shivered uncontrollably. Raindrops splattered on their helmets, making flat thumping noises. It only grew more intense, and the cold, wet feeling made him want to pee.

They had been waiting in ambush for two hours. Prone and crouched they laid in the grass, insects crawling all over them. Mosquitoes pierced through their uniforms to get at their skin wherever they could. His balls itched, but even so, there was nothing he could do. Scratching would not help. If anything, it would make it worse. His eyes were closing by themselves. Some of his comrades had managed to somehow fall asleep, inviting Suvorov's fist to their helmets.

Suvorov disengaged the safety mechanism of his machinegun without a sound. This weapon was nothing like the sissy submachine guns that Imperial troops carried in EW II. He wasn't sure about present equipment. Maybe they had finally gotten a proper support weapon. It was louder, had a higher sustainable rate of fire, and the first of its kind to have a large-capacity magazine. In fact, he was the one who got a Federation engineer to design the new magazine, after EW II.

There were white flashes in the background, and the earth trembled. The sounds were muted, and they could hear screaming and gunshots from here. The fighting had begun on another part of the mountain. But they could do nothing to help them.

_Squish._

Suvorov extended his right arm, palm down. Everyone stayed low. He showed them his hand. One. Two. Three. Four. Not the number of helmets. The number of sections. The Empire's standard procedure was to have six men and one section commander, per section. They didn't really need more than that.

"Fucking hell," commented one of the Imperials. "I want to go home. We could just starve them out."

"Quiet, boy. You'll get us all killed," snapped an ostensibly older man, a corporal. "We never talked back, back in EW II. The Feds would call artillery on us if they so much as heard a sneeze."

"I miss my fiancée. I was about to get married, you know. Then I get called up for this shit. I'm 20. Got a whole life ahead of me. Then Kaiser Sieghart, with his pretty face and manly voice, initiates a nationwide mobilization. On my wedding day. Didn't even get to complete the registration."

"Poor you. Now _shut up_," hissed the corporal.

"You probably don't understand," the loudmouth continued, obviously not satisfied. "Do you even have a family of your own?"

"Wife and adopted daughter. She's 19 this year."

"You don't feel sad at all? Or even disturbed?"

"My daughter's a soldier. I've only had her around for five years. But she's made me proud. I was a thirty-year-old man with no kid of my own. She's strong. She joined the army the day she turned sixteen."

"I don't believe you. Rank, name and unit?"

The exasperated corporal whispered as he passed Section 2's position, "Third Sergeant Lyudmilla Suvorova, 16th Infantry Division."

The sounds of boots slipping in the mud and making squishing noises, and falling rain were replaced quickly by a sudden eruption of gunfire. The vibrations from 31 weapons opening fire at once seemed to push the air out of their lungs.

"Take cover!"

"Return fire!"

"Retreat! It's no use!"

"Let's move! Move or we're dead!"

"We can't retreat! There's too much fire!"

Mitchell's chin fell as he witnessed this. It was no ambush. This was a massacre. The Imperial troops did not have a chance to return fire. The two machineguns churned out round after round, not pausing for even a moment. One fired while the other reloaded. There was no order and no chain of command. Only a symphony of violence.

The gunfire began to die away, as the men under Suvorov watched the Imperial bodies pile up. Suvorov caught sight of two men retreating hastily, dropping their weapon and sprinting away as fast as possible. He pulled the machine gun up and released a short burst. Both men fell dead, knees first, and then face flat on the mud.

As their ancestors had done ages before, in the light of dawn they checked the bodies for anything useful. Weapons, ammunition, food, water and anything else they could use, they took. Suvorov, however, was looking for someone. He recognised the corporal's outline. He laid on the ground next to a private with an engagement ring on his hand. With one hand he grabbed the still breathing man by the collars of his shirt.

"You. Where is your daughter from?" The dazed corporal was bleeding from his abdomen. There was no time to waste. He would be dead soon. "Goddamn you, corporal. Where did you adopt her from?"

"F… Fed…"

"Describe her."

"Beauty… dark… eyes…"

"More."

"Red… hair…"

_**BANG.**_

Everyone dropped and went flat against the ground. "Who's firing on us?"

"Find cover!"

Suvorov stood up, having gotten all the information he wanted. He looked at the nametag sewn onto the corporal's uniform. It read: "Suvorov". Coincidence? He wasn't sure. He was certain that it wasn't his daughter, based on the dead corporal's description. However, he couldn't help but think that there just might be a chance that it was her. And he wouldn't give up on that.

"Sergeant Major," said Waldemar, standing next to the man. "How is it that you knew that they would come up this path?"

"When it rains, Kaufmann, it pours. This isn't my first time on Arrowhead. The soil here becomes like glue after it's soaked in rainwater. It sticks to you. Sucks you into the mud. Makes your boots heavy. And if you didn't stay on grassy areas or somewhere with the vegetation that holds the soil together, you'd be stuck in the hillside mudflows… or pools of mud much like quicksand. The path here they were walking on is naturally rocky, with only a thin layer of soil. The rest is hard, hard rock. That's why they'll come up here."

Waldemar nodded. Suvorov put a cigarette between his lips, lighting it. Waldemar turned to his men. "2nd Platoon, move uphill, back to our line. They'll shell this place within two minutes." Suvorov liked Waldemar. He took initiative, and usually in the right way. This contrasted with Olsen, who was a loud, noisy person who acted like he was in charge but never really did anything. He crushed the cigarette butt between a rock and a hard boot, and then disappeared into the grass.

**1500 hours**

**4****th**** September, 1940**

**DAY 5**

"They're attacking!" shouted Mitchell. Enemy attack!" He, with sore hands and a lethargic body, pulled the trigger. He prayed every time that the bullet would hit. Please, please hit. At this point he was no longer aiming. He could barely even move his body. He was running on fumes, the leftovers of what determination he had at the start of this battle.

"Keep up the fire!" ordered Suvorov, unleashing the devil he kept within himself, specially reserved for the enemy. He raked the hillside with steady bursts of gunfire, pinning down enemy troops. But no matter how many they killed, there seemed to be more of them. "Send the Imperial bastards home!"

"Oorah!"

"F_ür das Vaterland! _F_ür mein Kaiser!"_

_"We're out of mortar rounds!" yelled Francisco. He jumped out of his hole. "Come on! We're joining the battle!" He unslung his submachine gun, checking as he ran that the safety was off and that his magazine was secured._

_"Sir, we are taking heavy fire on the east flank! North flank antitank guns have run out of ammunition. We're taking fire from enemy artillery, tanks and infantry. What are your orders?" Filipova looked like a panicked young woman, exhausted, hungry and all in all, in bad shape._

_Jaeger's seriousness took over. "Calm down. The arrogant Empire only attacks in the day. I know their patterns." He pondered for a bit. "Take the men on the north flank higher, up to the Alamo. Close the ring, steadily pulling back. We have to hold out. Conduct an organised retreat._

_Filipova gulped. She didn't respond._

_"Lieutenant. Do you hear me?" He put his large, warm hand on her shoulder, jolting her out of her daze. "I need you to do this. Can you do it?" She looked like a ghost. Pale, with cracked lips and dark, dark bags under her eyes, she was not quite the vision of beauty and vitality that she had been before they set out for this hell on a very small hill._

_She nodded, at first slowly, then firmly and swiftly. "Yes, sir. I can do it."_

_"Good." Jaeger smiled. He wanted her to last as long as she could. If a little encouragement would help, that was what he would give her. He sent her along, and he went to organise the falling back of his troops._

_It seemed like they had caught a break. The Imperial advance ceased at precisely 1800 hours, just in time for dinner. Suvorov observed with his binoculars in the dying daylight how the men of the Empire were having a good time, smoking expensive cigarettes and cooking a hot meal whenever it was convenient. Hah! Too lax. It'll cost them! Next to Suvorov, in the broken trees, was Whiskey Company's best shot and sneakiest little devil, Corporal Kavi._

_His next act would earn him a special nickname. Not only was he dark-skinned, he was also a Darcsen. To this day there is debate as to whether he was originally labelled "Dark-skinned Devil" or "Darcsen Devil", but the latter is proving more popular._

_Kavi's slender digits cradled the rifle. The weapon kicked back into his shoulder. He breathed steadily, calmly working the bolt. He pulled up, slit it back, and ejected the casing. With two fingers on his right hand he caught it in mid-air. He let it drop as he pushed the bolt in and down, readying the next bullet to fire. He shifted his aim. Again he pulled the trigger. Picking up the casing he'd left on the ground, he slid – in absolute silence – back into the cover of darkness. _

_Suvorov confirmed the panic in the enemy ranks. He felt very satisfied, watching them take cover and, panicked, drag their fallen comrades back behind cover to see if they were still alive. Kavi always delivered on his promises. In a mere five seconds, he had eliminated an enemy lieutenant and a signaller. Both had been careless, ignoring field discipline in their arrogance. The officer was smoking, while the signaller was talking too loudly on his signal set. Suvorov and Kavi made their way up to the Alamo, close to the summit._

_The Alamo was a last-stand position that Jaeger had selected and prepared. This was what the duty platoon worked on whenever there was time. Casualties were brought up here and put in the tall grass, to hide them. Men were quickly redeployed into these areas as well, and into the fallen trees and craters carved into the hillside._

_Night fell over them. With what little light the moon provided, they managed their men and resources. Jaeger went around to each position to inspect it, checking on the men and encouraging them. A simple compliment can push a man onwards for a long, long time. He was preparing them for Fight Night, as it were._

_They were all aware of the situation and deathly fearful for their safety. They were low on ammo, out of water, and out of food. Their supply line and escape routes were cut off. There was an air of disbelief about them, that they were facing their own mortality. How hard they fought now would determine their fates._

_The night, the hunger and the fatigue came together to form a deadly concoction. The night passed slowly. Nikolai opened the little metal container that he carried in his shirt pocket, and opened his shirt. With three fingers he applied the powder in the container onto his body, in the armpits and on his neck. It would relieve his itching somewhat, and absorb his perspiration. A soldier could do without it, but it helped a lot._

_Francisco on the other hand, held his rifle close. He sat with his back against the side of the foxhole. He shut his eyes, trying to get some rest. But his body refused to shut down. It refused to become unaware of its surroundings. He was exhausted, and wanted to sleep… but he could not._

_Waldemar patted him on the shoulder twice. "Try to get some rest. At least close your eyes. Even if you can't sleep it'll help to relieve the fatigue."_

_"Okay. Okay, thank you."_

_Waldemar looked up into the sky. A purple flash cut across the night sky. He steeled his heart and lowered his rifle, anticipating the terror to come. The thunder was louder than any explosion he had heard in his life. The rain followed soon after, and it soaked them through and through. Again they huddled together in their little dark holes, shivering. Fear in their hearts overrode their fatigue. They were afraid of the battle to come. It was to be the coup de grace. Some wished that day would just come so that it would all be over. The passing of this long, long night would mark their sixth day on this godforsaken hill._

_Jeremy Jericho – or JJ as he liked to be addressed – collected rainwater from the tarp he had laid on top of four branches. This water was vital. It was the entire company's only source of relatively clean water at this point. He shared this water with some of the wounded, before returning to his dugout._

_Grumbling to himself about his rashes and about the situation in general, JJ searched his field pack, looking for the most important article of clothing in any soldier's arsenal: underwear. But he gave up, more than just frustrated. His spare – and dry – underwear was completely drenched. He had wrapped it in waterproof leather, but discovered that there was a hole, through which water had entered. Such misfortune. He had been saving it for a time like this when he felt wet, dirty and itchy in a place where one should not._

_"Just my luck," he muttered under his breath. He looked up, feeling beads of water land on his face. The constant pitter-patter of the rain, combined with the darkness of night and the magnificence of thunder and lightning above, made him feel insignificant despite his size. His boots gradually sank into mud that became stickier and softer with each moment, as the rainwater took the shape of the hole he now called home. As he amused himself with how soggy the insides of his boots had become, the end of their peaceful, silent night came._

With a loud screech, a flare lit up the sky above him. More flares followed soon after, and it soon became as bright as day.

"Stand to! Stand to!" he hissed, alerting his comrades.

"Sergeant," whispered one of the lightly wounded, who had propped himself up against a tree stump, facing the man-sized grass that grew on the slope. "I need a magazine."

"It's my last one. Don't waste it," cautioned JJ, tossing it to the man, who grabbed it and gave him a thumbs up and a smile.

The line was silent. There was only thunder and the sizzling of the flares as they expired. They braced themselves for the coming onslaught.

But the attack never came.

Suvorov could see nothing through the downpour, even with the excessively bright flares floating in the sky overhead. The flares died several minutes later. Darkness returned. The rain intensified. Again the flares came, and hisses of "Stand to!" were heard once more.

"They're fucking with us," stated the Sergeant Major.

"Psychological warfare," agreed Jaeger with a firm nod. "They're not letting us rest. And once we get used to having flares above us, they'll attack and catch us off guard." They waited with anticipation every time the flares came. Surovov, tired of staring into the sky and blinding himself each time, went to check on Corporal Kavi.

More flares. Jaeger half-expected to have to wait again, but this time the flares came with artillery. He crouched and stayed as low in his little hole as he could, hoping that the shells would not hit too close. He had not come this far to die now.

The barrage ceased.

The last stand began.

Imperial soldiers let out a frightening war cry as they charged uphill. They were cut down by machineguns and rifles as they assaulted a prepared and dominant position. If given the opportunity, Jaeger would have reprimanded the Imperial commander.

"We can't hold! There are too many!" shouted Filipova as she lobbed her last grenade over her head and into the fray. It exploded, tearing a few men to shreds.

"There's nowhere else to go! We will hold – we have to," replied Jaeger, changing positions. He climbed out of his hole, sprinted a short distance and landed in Filipova's foxhole at the end of a short leap. He looked up at her once he regained his breath and balance.

"I can't take it. I think I'm going crazy," said the young woman, throwing aside her rifle. Its open bolt told Jaeger that she had run out of ammunition and her expression, that she was having some kind of panic attack. "I'm scared. I'm scared, I'm scared! I don't want to die."

Jaeger was filled with pity. He felt indignant. He felt personally responsible for landing her – and his men – in this state. "Katrina," he said to her, putting one of two stripper clips into her hand as he crouched beside her. "We're all scared." He rolled her soft, slender fingers over the clip of five rounds, taking hold of her hand firmly thereafter. "I'll be with you, right here. You'll be fine."

Loading his rifle, Jaeger carried on. These were his last five rounds.

Let's make them count.

Kavi breathed out, steadying his shaking arms. The rifle butt slammed into his aching shoulder. He felt as if it was going to fall off. Shifting his weight to one side, he reached for his ammunition.

"Die, capitalist scum!!"

Kavi panicked, letting go of his ammunition pouch and looking up to his left. An Imperial soldier had his rifle raised over his head, ready to bash his face into the muddy earth. He brought his arm up instinctively, fully expecting to have it broken by the blow.

His ears rang and all he could see was orange. The Imperial warrior fell, cut to pieces. Two legs strode over his body, one at a time. Dozens of consecutive flashes of orange caught his attention, as did the distinctive roar of a machinegun. The long and slim legs belonged to Company Sergeant Major Sean Suvorov.

Kavi watched the stone-faced, steel-hearted man walk almost casually into the tall grass, firing his machinegun as if he was taking a stroll in the park. Kavi reloaded his rifle.

"Is that it, Eastern prettyboys?" roared Suvorov, putting one sergeant down for the count. He grinned, looking at the shocked faces of his subordinates. They looked as lost as stray dogs. He pulled the trigger, and heard a click. Jammed. The first man came charging, and was greeted with a machinegun butt to the cheek.

Suvorov dropped the 12-kilogram machinegun at the end of his buttstroke. Conveniently, he pulled his knife from his left hip as he would pull out an icepick. He turned back to the right, slashing a second man across the neck. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into his chest. He took one more step forward, regaining his balance. A third man came forward with his weapon at the ready, but he lost the match of quickdraw. Suvorov pulled the trigger on his pistol twice more, putting him down for good.

Pulling the blade out from the corpse, he stepped backwards, firing well-timed and well-aimed shots at incoming enemies. He retreated with Kavi by his side, covering him.

"Sergeant Major, we're out of ammo!" reported one of the lightly wounded, who was guarding the casualty collection point. The despairing man threw down his submachine gun.

Suvorov smiled. "Knives don't need reloading."

"This is it! They're going all-out!" Enemy artillery swept the hill from the top down, even as their troops continued advancing. In the chaos, the battle developed into a melee. Steel met flesh, and fists met faces. Men were locked in battle like savage animals, their cries silenced by deafening, shocking explosions that jolted their bodies.

"We're overrun! Retreat!" ordered Sergeant Nikolai, waving to his section and instructing them to fall back.

"No! No retreat!" insisted Olsen, grabbing the man and pulling him back. "Coward! Fight and die for your Motherland!"

"**YOU** fight, faggot!" screamed the sergeant, swinging his arm over Olsen's and sweeping it down. He observed Olsen, staring at his magazine pouches. The bastard still had several clips of ammunition left. "You're the real coward."

"You- I will not stand for this disrespect! You will obey my order!" the angered Olsen demanded, resting his aligned iron sights on Nikolai's back as the sergeant moved his men back up to the summit of the hill.

"You are a traitor to the Motherland!"

Olsen was shaken off-balance. The weapon fired. He landed face-first in the mud, and stayed there. He decided that this was a good time to play dead. He turned his face to the side, so that he could breathe. He watched as Imperial soldiers advanced up the hill, overrunning their position completely. They advanced, shooting and bayoneting helpless and defenceless Federation soldiers.

Then he saw them turning around, and saw tracer rounds coming from behind them. He watched the confused Imperials take cover and return fire. Now that they were completely ignoring the top of the hill, he took the opportunity to crawl to safety. He observed from his new, safe position.

Intense gunfire came from just in front of him, as dawn arrived. The Imperials fell back, making way for whatever was coming uphill.

Olsen kept his eyes wide open. He looked as several silhouettes came up the hill, weapons pointed to the sides. He saw a familiar face in the morning light.

First Sergeant Orlov.


	5. The Pencil Pusher and The Greenhorn

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

**Author's Note:** Hello reader! I realise that up until now you have been seeing mostly my original characters and Jaeger… but soon, more familiar Gallian names and voices will be heard once more. Thank you for reading up to this point; please stay with me, as I tell you the story of Whiskey Company!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the rights to the military songs. I do not know whom to give credit to.

Chapter 05

**0900 hours**

**6****th**** September, 1940**

A hard-fought battle. JJ sat on the soggy ground, too tired from his ordeal to care. They had finally been relieved. He panted for breath. His eyes threatened to close right there and then… but as the medical specialist of Whiskey Company, he was permitted no rest.

"Sergeant," greeted the only other medic to survive. JJ faced him and listened. "Look at Sergeant Orlov." Lance Corporal Shakir directed JJ's attention to the company quartermaster sergeant.

"Yeah? What about him?" asked JJ, forgetting good manners.

"He came back at the last moment, stealing glory and credit. He's happily working now, looking good and kissing asses, while we went through shit and lost our buddies," commented the medic, watching as comrades of the 21st Division marched to battle.

JJ sighed. He unclipped his chin strap and took off his helmet. He was in no mood to argue. He maintained his silence. There was work to do, and he had no energy to waste on idle banter.

"Well done, Jaeger," said the colonel to the captain. Jaeger saluted, and so did the colonel. The colonel lowered his hand, offering Jaeger a handshake. The colonel smiled. "You did a good job holding Arrowhead. I'll see to it that you are properly rewarded."

"Thank you, Sir… but I believe that my men and women are more deserving of reward. A lot of them have given their lives for the Federation. All of them have given their very best for their nation."

"One day's leave."

Jaeger wasn't sure that he was hearing things right. "I beg your pardon, Sir?"

"One day's leave. A hot shower and hot meal."

He could hardly believe what he was hearing. 150 men and women gave their lives to hold a vital position, saving time, effort and blood for the rest of the Federation military. The surviving 50 were half-dead, and all that they were receiving in return was a short break, warm water and hot food. No remuneration. No medals. No offers for promotion.

"I understand that you are in need of new commanders and troops," the colonel went on, going straight to business. "I'll see to it that your company is reinforced as soon as possible."

Mitchell stepped into the campsite, made up of two-man tents, hastily pitched. This was his home for the night. As if fighting had not been enough trouble, he had had to pitch his own tent, and had to share it with the shaken and now quiet Lieutenant Filipova. She did not give a damn, and neither did he. All he wanted right now was to sleep.

But even in slumber he could find no peace. He would awaken, soaked and freezing, chilled to his bones by the strong, cold wind. He shivered. His clothes were wet and muddy. The cold breeze that blew into him did not help at all.

The Sergeant Major was right. The worst and scariest part of war is not the battle. It's waiting for the next one, and remembering what it is like to be in combat. Memories return, and one is forced to relive something that should already be over and done with.

"I've never been this scared." His back was turned to her. Hers was turned to him as well. He turned to face her, but she remained facing the side of the little tent. There was barely enough room to lie down in there. "All the fighting… watching comrades get cut to pieces… Starving and thirsty for days… It won't get out of my head."

"… Yeah." He didn't know what else to say. He did not feel like it was his place to ask any questions either.

"I'm scared." She turned around. Putting a pleading hand on his shoulder in the darkness, she asked of him, "Please… hold me. Just for tonight."

Just for tonight.

Why the hell not?

Mitchell awoke to find himself alone in the tent. He exited, sliding out feet first. Looking around, he only saw some of his companions. No sign of the Lieutenant.

"Mitchell, you lucky bastard!" hissed Kavi with a grin the width of the Vazel River. "I overheard what she said to you last night."

Mitchell felt like he was at the top of the world. He saw it as an opportunity to boost his ego and improve his social standing. "Yeah, she was all over me." His smug grin grew to match Kavi's.

"Good job, man." Kavi patted Mitchell on the shoulder. The sound of heavy tyres crushing sticks and small rocks alerted him to a new development. From under the truck's canvas tarp emerged Orlov. "Ooh. Rations!"

Orlov, directing his supply party, replaced the empty jerrycans with full ones, distributed rations and ammunition, and collected rubbish to be disposed of. Suvorov supervised, expediting the process with his awe-and-fear-inspiring presence.

Once done, they headed back to the town of Arnsberg, captured soon after the 21st Division arrived at Arrowhead. It was now their forward headquarters.

War is not only about fighting. Good commanders talk about strategy. Masters of command talk about logistics. Corporal Russano Leodan is one of many who take care of the aftermath of every battle.

"We need these letters done quickly," said his senior, an incredibly lazy administrative specialist. "Just use this template." He dumped a huge pile of paper on Russano's table.

Russano's eyes scanned the first piece of paper as his senior walked away. The words were all the same, except for empty fields for the soldier's name, rank, national and Federal registry numbers, and other information such as "Killed In Action". Died as heroes. What a lie, he thought to himself as he got to work. He had to match each dogtag to each letter of condolence. They had to account for every single loss, award a posthumous two-rank promotion, arrange the funeral, and arrange monetary compensation for their loss.

"Damn the Federation Army," he muttered to himself. As if working for a moron of a colonel was not enough, he had to lie to hundreds of families.

He left the office, and went for lunch. He headed to the function room in the town hall, the designated mess area. Men of all ranks ate here. He made it a point to avoid the colonel, hiding behind other people as we went up to the distribution point with his mess tin in hand. Relieved that he was not dragged to the lunch table with his show-off boss, he took a seat at the Sergeants' table.

"You, corporal – you're not supposed to be here," hissed Nikolai threateningly. He ate with his left hand. His right arm was in a sling, and bandaged. "It says **Sergeants'** table."

His hostility clashed with the jazzy, seductive voice of Brigitte Stark, whose latest best-selling record was invading airwaves all over the world. He stood still and listened to her song, while watching Nikolai shoot him a smug look. He felt very unwelcome at the table.

"Let him sit." All heads turned to the other end of the table, where First Sergeant Orlov was seated. "Nobody's going to occupy that seat, anyway. You're ruining the song."

Nobody opposed him. By appointment and by rank, he had more power than they did. "Arrogant faggot," muttered Nikolai under his breath. He hated how Orlov sat in the truck all the time, or in his store room, waiting for something to happen while people outside were bleeding and starving to death. That fellow had an attitude problem.

Russano sat and consumed his meal, all the while feeling like the sergeants were staring daggers into him. He listened to the radio as he ate, not making eye contact with any of the sergeants at the table. The Bastards of Whiskey Company did not welcome administrative staff, because they were not "the same".

"Greetings, Europa!" a chirpy voice called out from the speakers overhead. It was Irene Ellet, Gallia's most famous reporter. "I'm today's guest on Radio Germania!"

"Oh, come on, Irene. That's my job!"

"I'm so sorry! I couldn't help it."

"So what do you have to share with us today?"

"Well… I interviewed a few gentlemen from the Federation army, and they tell me that in one part of the Federation that is now the front line, there's a famous bunch of people that both allies and enemies alike have nicknamed The Bastards Of Whiskey Company. I've been wondering about them…"

"Oh, so you've heard about them too. I'm curious. What have you heard?"

"I've heard of their exploits on the front of battle… about how the Imperial forces huddle tightly in their holes on hearing the footsteps of Whiskey Company; about how they fought hard, mastering their fear as they held on to a little hill near Arnsberg while surrounded, without supplies."

While she praised Whiskey Company, they listened with contempt. She knew nothing; only the sensationalised stories that were designed to sell. She had a way of engaging people, but some things, soldiers could not stand. They are always under stress to perform and complete a given mission. Working with each other becomes difficult. Everyone's true face surfaces in combat.

As soon as he could, Russano left the table, returning the utensils and headed back to the office. Lunch had been a very unsettling and unenjoyable experience. On his way, he was greeted by a most unwelcome sight.

"Corporal Russano, come here." He froze and sighed, realising that he could not avoid the Colonel, to whom he was personal assistant. The colonel thrust a folder into his hands. "Come with me." Resigning to his fate as a warrior fighting a war of pencils and paper, he followed the colonel into the office.

The young corporal knew what this was about. The photo was labelled with one word:

"**CHARGE"**

**1700 hours**

**6****th**** September 1940**

**Arnsberg**

"Good evening, Lieutenant," greeted Suvorov, shaking hands with a young man named Sigurd Green. "Welcome to Arnsberg."

"Good to meet you too, Warrant Suvorov."

"Sergeant Major will do, Sir. Come with me," said Suvorov. The younger and more inexperienced man was quite uptight and formal. "I'll take you to the OC's office." The duo passed through a sea of humans, going up one floor to where the high-ranking officers and senior specialists were quartered. Suvorov knocked on a solid wooden door.

"Enter," beckoned a deep voice.

After opening the door, Suvorov saluted almost casually. "Good evening, Sir. Lieutenant Green is here." He stepped inside and to the side, allowing the younger soldier to enter.

Sigurd stepped forward with his left leg, bringing his right knee to waist level. His boot heel struck the floor with a loud bang. He saluted, proudly lifting his head high. "Sir! Lieutenant Green reporting for duty, Sir!"

_Green_ was right. He was as green as they would get. Neatly ironed uniform, blindingly shiny leather boots and neat two-by-four haircut. Clean shaven, with no sideburns and no moustache. Jaeger was willing to bet that he had a change of uniform and two pieces of spare underwear in his field pack.

Jaeger saluted. "Welcome to Whiskey Company." He then shook Green's hand with a smile. He was delighted to have someone young and idealistic to bring some energy into the company.

"Sir, who's that?" asked Sigurd. On the left, he could see through the window. Outside, on the cobblestone road, was a military jeep marked **"MP"** on the side.

"That?" Jaeger asked, following Sigurd's gaze.

Two armed men marched an officer to the vehicle at gunpoint. The officer marched smartly and proudly. He stopped outside the van, marching on the spot, lifting his knees to waist level one at a time until given the order to stop. His boot struck the ground and he stood ramrod straight while the two military policemen opened the door in its side.

The stern-looking fellows, in sync, reached for his epaulettes. In one swift move they demoted him from Lieutenant to Prisoner – lower than the lowly Recruit, tearing the rank off his shoulders.

"That's the man you're replacing," Jaeger stated. He turned to Sigurd and made eye contact. "He's going to the Detention Barracks."

Sigurd shuddered. DB was the last place that anyone would want to go to. It was a cold, lonely place of torture. The MPs beat him into the vehicle with their rifle butts. As they did so, a platoon marched past, breaking the monotony of "Left, Right, Left."

_**Down by the river,**_

_**Took a little walk**_

_**Ran into Imperial troops!**_

_**Here is where they halt!**_

_**Push them!**_

_**Hah!**_

_**Kick them!**_

_**Hah!**_

_**Stab them! Kill them!**_

_**Oorah!**_

_**Into the river,**_

_**Let them drown!**_

_**We don't need Imperials**_

_**In our town**_

_**Hey, don't be a fool**_

_**Kaiser Sieghart is a human too**_

_**And we're gonna kill, kill, him--**_

_**WHISKEY!**_

Green had never heard such loud, united and frightful singing of a marching cadence. Immediately his heard was filled with awe and fear. "Sir, what outfit is that?"

Jaeger grinned. "Those are the men you're in charge of from now on." He observed Sigurd's reaction. The boy – for he was a mere babe in this war – turned white.

"**The Bastards Of Whiskey Company."**

Suvorov sat next to Jaeger on a bench outside the town hall. Trademark cigarette between his lips, he took a puff and spoke. "Sir," he said. "I don't understand why you didn't tell the men that Orlov left for a reason. All of them assume that he ran away and came back to claim credit. He's having quite a few problems now, dealing with this poor reputation."

Nodding firmly, Jaeger acknowledged Suvorov's concern. "I understand. But that's something he has to deal with himself as Company Quartermaster Sergeant. He needs to learn to handle his narcissistic side. He has to put down his ego and learn to work with the men, as a commander. Besides, we were surrounded. I couldn't tell them something like that – it would have destroyed their will to fight if they knew that help was coming. Men with nothing left to lose will fight harder and longer than any others."

Suvorov nodded in understanding, flicking the cigarette out of his hand with his middle finger. "We're moving out in the morning, aren't we?"

"Yes. Get some rest, Sergeant Major." Jaeger paused, turning to look at his friend. "We're going to need it."


	6. To Germania

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 06

"Lieutenant, Ma'am. I'm curious," said Mitchell to Filipova, who did not respond. She drank water from her metal canteen. Mitchell decided to continue anyway. "Why did the MPs drag Lieutenant Olsen away to the DB?" Still nothing. He felt like he was being ignored. "What is the DB really like, anyway?"

"Listen to me carefully, Private," she snapped with a scowl, putting the canteen back into the pouch it came from. "What happened that night is exactly what it was. I sought comfort. I received it. I'm thankful, but that doesn't mean you can expect more and more from me. And it doesn't mean that you can go around spreading lies that you had sex with me, to boost your ego and social standing. Get back in formation."

With that, she closed her heart to him, and walked away. "Way to fly, Mitchell," said Nikolai, walking past him. "Crash and **burn**." The sergeant laughed at the poor man. Mitchell looked down and breathed out, feeling his chest grow tight and his heart, heavier. HE turned around. Andrew was grinning like a fool, while Kavi acted as if he had taken a hit in to the chest.

"Fall in!" Sigurd called out. His platoon, the 40 remaining men and women of Whiskey Company, was now designated 2nd Platoon. They moved at their own pace, taking their time for form up. He wanted to reprimand them as had been indoctrinated in him, but the words would not come out. Looking into their eyes, he felt a lot younger than the youngsters, like he was their little brother. "Quickly! We don't have time to waste.

Francisco rolled his eyes, expecting another Olsen out of Sigurd. Typical fresh graduate from the academy. Green as a grasshopper, only able to pull rank and throw tantrums.

"Ahh… Ladies and gentlemen, we are here as part of the Army's counterattack plan. Be on standby until ordered to stand down. You will maintain field discipline. Do not enter the town without permission. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir." The voices were soft, uninspired and completely uninterested.

"Is that understood?!" yelled Sigurd, letting his temper take over for a moment.

"Yes, Sir," they said again, louder and more exasperated this time.

"That is all." Sigurd quickly walked away, feeling their eyes on his back. Without waiting for him to walk out of earshot, they started commenting on him. Would he be a good leader? Was he a moron who wanted to put on a show for his superiors so that he could curry favour? They amused themselves with these thoughts.

Once he was safely out of sight, Sigurd slapped the top of his helmet with his left hand, kicking himself mentally and silently reproaching himself. How could he allow himself to make such a bad impression on the men? How could he have let himself be seen as an arrogant, angry fool?

"Do we have a problem, Lieutenant?"

"Ahh, Sir!" Sigurd lifted his weapon up, but was stopped by a large, firm hand placed on his rifle.

"No need to salute me. I'm not a very regimental person. Besides… saluting an officer in the field is like signing his death warrant," Jaeger said, retracting his hand. "Don't they teach you that at your officers' academy?"

"I panicked, Sir. The Army always puts regimentation first. I follow the rules to the letter. Forgive me if I'm too formal and uptight. You're my superior and it terrifies me to talk to my more experienced and powerful superiors." Green was stiff as he spoke to Jaeger, who seemed quite amused.

"Nothing wrong with that," the officer said approvingly. "Just understand that you have to adjust to the field. Out here, not all the rules apply. How are you adjusting to your new posting?"

"Not so well, Sir," admitted Sigurd with embarrassment, dropping his head and his shoulders. "I feel like a fool. Like a baby. They make me feel ashamed of myself. I don't feel like I am able to lead these men. They're so much more experience than I… It makes me feel useless."

"You'll find a way, Lieutenant. You'll have to. In the field – in combat – it's no longer about whether you think you can or not. Necessity dictates that you must."

Sigurd nodded. Jaeger patted him on the shoulder before walking off. He decided to call his father, making full use of his privileges as an officer.

"Dad. It's me. Sigurd."

"Hey, my boy. How's it going?"

"Not very good. I'm not sure I can lead my platoon. They're a bunch of badass, bloodthirsty Bastards."

"I know. The Bastards of Whiskey Company."

"Young man," began the old man with a chuckle. "I used to be a sergeant in Whiskey Company. A platoon sergeant, in fact. And when the winds of war blow our way, Whiskey Company is always the first one there. They prove themselves in battle. The remaining survivors earn the title of 'Bastard'. It's a tradition in Whiskey Company."

"I see." Listening to the old man's war stories never got old. There was always something to learn. "Then how did you lead those men?"

"I lived, bled and died with them, my boy. I showed them that I was a soldier first, sergeant second. For soldiers, action speaks louder than words. Show them that you're not some fucked up rich kid from the academy. Show them your skills. Trust in your training. Keep them disciplined, but do it without being an asshole."

Sigurd thought about this for a moment. Though still uncertain, he nodded to himself and said to his father, "Thank you."

_Sigurd's Letter_

_Dear Father,_

_Things have been tough going thus far. I feel that some of the men scorn me. The Company 2IC – Second-In-Charge – is a pretty girl with attitude and a huge crush on the Officer Commanding, Captain Radi Jaeger. But she isn't just any girl. She fights harder than anyone I've seen. Just yesterday she showed me how inexperienced I am._

_While crossing a shallow river as part of our combat movement, she filled her canteen, holding it underwater in her left hand as she ran. She assaulted a machinegun nest on her own, dashing in one direction to cover and throwing a grenade at the machinegun as she went. She knows with one look where to go, and leads the troops without a doubt in her heart. They are always cooperative when she gives an order._

_Sergeant Waldemar Kaufmann – a man two years my junior, at age 23 – laughed when he saw the contents of my field pack: one change of uniform, two pieces of underwear, two pairs of socks, soap bar, towel, mess tin and rations… Third Sergeant Nikolai added his own snide remarks, telling me in negative fashion that I would learn to wear one set of fatigues until they were no more than rags, and that I should pack more photos of my dear wife, Vittoria_

_My dear father, I know this is my duty as a husband and father, but I no longer have access to a telephone. Please take Vittoria and Sigmund as far away as you can. Go to Aunt Liza's place in Germania. It's safer there. Their military strength is much greater than ours. Germania will surely be able to win._

_Please give my love to our family._

_Your loving son,_

_Sigurd_

_2LT SIGURD GREEN_

**10****th**** October, 1940**

"Goddammit," muttered JJ. He threw his hands into the air in complete frustration. Just when he was about to go for a short lunch break, a truck full of casualties returned from the front line. He watched Orlov lower the tailboard of the supply truck and sighed. "Man, every time I see you, somebody dies or gets wounded."

Orlov grinned. "Careful. Next one might be you."

JJ snorted and shook his head. "By right, you're not even supposed to be here, anyway. They have medical transports for a reason, you know."

"Paint a red cross on the side of a truck and you think you're safe? The Imperials treat them as bullseyes." Orlov did not want to answer JJ's comment. After all, he didn't have to. The wounded were transported, and he still got his job done in timely fashion.

They were old friends from a school in their busy town. JJ was the fearsome giant full of wit, who was always the first chosen for any team, especially sports. Orlov on the other hand, was the flirt who loved to impress, but who failed very often. Many put him down for it. Many of those people are no longer alive to do so, and he has but lost all interest, ever since he became a soldier.

"Sergeant Orlov!" greeted Davis, smiling and waving at the supply sergeant. The latter returned the gesture. "My arm's all good now. Ready to get back in action!"

"Don't bother," replied Orlov dismissively. "I've been trying to indent more supplies for the Company in this sector. HQ has denied _**all**_ my applications so far. You won't believe the stack of rejected forms in the garbage at the compound. Fucking wasteful. I've spoken to the other CQs. A lot of supplies are being moved to the southwest. By the looks of it, we're going to be redeployed."

"Follow the supplies, follow the action," said Davis. Orlov nodded. Davis also nodded. Davis was a compulsive talker, but he knew that there were things not to be said until the time was right. Making inappropriate comments could potentially land one in the Detention Barracks.

**11****th**** October, 1940**

Mitchell spat, and then partook of the water in his canteen. Gritty. Sandy. Dirty. Yuck. They had fought so long and so hard during the counterattack against the Imperials. Before that it was the battle to hold Arrowhead. And now they had to retreat to somewhere near the Germanian Border. Their counterattack had been foiled.

"Goddammit," he cursed angrily, letting his emotions take over. "Fuck this."

"What's the matter, Michelle? Not getting any action with the Lieutenant?" teased Nikolai sinisterly.

"Fuck you."

"Heh. Well, at least I got rid of Olsen. DB must be fun…"

The investigation carried out after Arrowhead revealed that Olsen had been seen arguing with Nikolai, threatening him with his weapon and discharging it, which resulted in Nikolai being wounded. The charge was processed as soon as possible thereafter, and he was sent to the DB.

"The Detention Barracks is not a place that I'd like to go to," said Waldemar, sitting down next to the dastardly Nikolai. "He shot you, and that's his problem. But you still should not laugh at his plight. If you end up in there, you won't be laughing much."

"I don't care. And I won't go to DB. Besides… how bad can it be? I'm as tough as they come."

Waldemar raised both eyebrows, feeling like a challenge had been laid before him. "Your rank is stripped from you in public. You crawl into a cold little cell, naked. A small slot in the wall gives you light. A slot in the door is where your food comes from. There's a little toilet seat in the corner and a sink where you wash your hands. But it never works. Day to day, you are made to do things such as unrolling and rerolling toilet rolls. You carry your field pack and do drills in a T-shirt, shorts and boots, even in pouring rain or snow. And if that's not humiliating enough, the MPs beat you into your cell. Your food is little more than hard, improperly cooked rice and tasteless gravy. As a menace to the country, you have no privileges. No human rights. No mercy."

All who listened – except Nikolai – were silent. "You know so much about the DB. Why? Been there before? Or have you only heard stories and are talking big, hmm?"

Davis nudged Nikolai, who completely ignored him. Francisco slapped his forehead, watching Nikolai make a fool of himself in front of the other sergeants and enlisted men who happened to be here.

"Yes," revealed Waldemar, without any obvious change in expression. "I did one year in the DB, on multiple charges: Assaulting an officer, disobedience to lawful order, engaging in fisticuffs, breach of the Military Secrets Act, disobedience towards an officer and contempt of court for failing to polish my boots while in detention prior to court-martial. Each charge was worth 2 months, and my sentences were to be served consecutively."

"So many charges?" Nikolai asked, genuinely curious this time. Everyone listened intently.

"I assaulted the previous OC of Whiskey Company. He had ordered the entire company of raw recruits to march to battle and wanted them to perform a suicidal frontal attack 'For the Motherland' on a fortified enemy position. I found out about it and told them to ignore that order. I argued with him. We fought. He had me put in the DB. The day I walked out with my stripes back on my sleeves was the day he marched into the gates of the Detention Barracks with ranks torn from his shoulders."

Waldemar got up. He had said all that he wanted to say, and did not need to hear anything from anyone. He took his leave.

"Change of topics. Back to business," said Davis, turning his head away from Waldemar to face Mitchell. "What do you think is-"

"Gentlemen! And ladies!" exclaimed Sigurd. "Fall in! Everything on!"

The Bastards of Whiskey Company assembled in just twenty seconds, ready to march, while their juniors panicked. The greenhorns magically forgot everything they had learned in basic training. Lieutenant Filipova gave them a good licking, with sharp tongue and pointed finger.

"Whiskey Company is the leader of the pack. We are the fastest, toughest Bastards in Europa. Act like it! We're marching to battle!"

Without wasting time, she gave the order. "Whiskey Company! Forward--- march!"

Squish. Splash. Squish. Splash. Brrm. Brrm. Click. Click. Click.

They marched on the road, silently at first. The distinct sound of their boots crunching in unison against the paved road echoed in the woods through which they marched.

Jaeger marched by their side, while Filipova led in front. Suvorov bore the flag, on which was drawn a crouching wolf, its fangs bared and its eyes thirsty for blood. He led the song that arrogantly announced their presence. He led the song that made Imperial soldiers beg their commanders to retreat. He sang with pride the song that only Bastards could song. And they sang along with him.

_Whiskey Company--!_

**Oorah!**

_Who are we--?!_

**Soldiers!**

_No!_

**Warriors!**

_No!_

**Bastards!**

_Bastards--?_

**Yes! We are the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**Ready to fight and kill our enemy!**

**We are the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**We are the best of Federation Infantry!**

_Whiskey Company--!_

**Oorah!**

_Who are we--?!_

**We are the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**Kaiser go home and cry to Mummy!**

**Don't mess with the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**We'll tear you apart and eat your body.**

_Whiskey Company--!_

**Oorah!**

_Who are we--?_

**We are the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**To the death we'll fight for victory!**

**Fear the Bastards of Whiskey Company!**

**Here we come, to the Hour of Glory!**

_Whiskey Company--!_

**Oorah!**

_Shout like thunder!_

**Thunder!**

_March like lightning!_

**Lightning!**

_Fight for victory!_

**VICTORY!**

**14****th**** October, 1940**

**Close to the German Border**

"Where are the Germans?" shouted Sigurd, crawling in the trench to Jaeger's command post. Wherever he was, Davis would be there, as his personal signaller.

"I'm trying to get them on the line!" a frustrated Davis snapped. His jaw flapped open and back shut, and he was thrown from his seat on his helmet. He crawled back to his signal set, competing with the exploding artillery shells for the recipient's attention. "Hello! Jaguar! Jaguar! Where are you? Over!"

"Identify yourself, over," the arrogant, can't-be-bothered voice said to him.

"Jaguar, this is Bloodhound. Requesting immediate support at location Anastasia, over!"

"Bloodhound, this is Jaguar. No can do. Full Moon has not given approval."

Davis was uncertain of what he had just heard. Was the information accurate? "This is Bloodhound. Jaguar, say again message, over."

"Bloodhound, this is Jaguar. I say again: Full Moon has not given the green light. Over."

"Fuck you and your Full Moon," replied Davis. He put the handset back and switched off the signal set, conserving battery power.

"What news?" asked Sigurd, crawling up to Davis' side.

"The Germans aren't coming. Their CO refuses to move."

Sigurd relaxed his entire body, his face landing in the soil. He was hoping that they would have some support, or perhaps even an all-new counterattack.

"Well, gentlemen, we are not staying here to get slaughtered," declared Jaeger. He cared for his men. "Sigurd, get the message to Filipova. We're pulling back. Rally at One Eight Zero Zero at point Jane, as per CO's orders."

Jaeger began packing his things, as did Davis. The Federation Third Army had created contingency plans for such a situation.

What situation, you ask?

They were now caught between Imperial muzzles and the closed doors of Germania. The peacetime agreement between member states of the Federation was that if ever any member state need to shelter its people, Germania, one of the largest and most powerful states, had to play host if no other country would.

Naturally, this came with so much paperwork and "due process" that it was obvious to anyone that it was designed to keep that from ever actually happening.

It was a simple plan. If Germania would not open its doors, they would lure the Empire into a charge, and let the momentum carry them into Germania, opening the way for a Federation retreat.

Jaeger had suggested the course of action. The CO agreed and brought the suggestion up to the formation commander, who in turn brought it up to the Chief Of Third Army. What a fine idea! Unfortunately, Sigurd could not bring himself to think so, because his wife, child and father were in Germania's capital, Berlin.

He was bringing the Empire to his family.

He had to kill them to save them.

What a Bastard.


	7. To Gallia!

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 07

Irene sipped her tea. This was good stuff! The best in Germania, if not Europa. This café was popular for that reason and more. The restaurant was flooded with patrons. The seat opposite of hers was vacant, however.

"Good morning. May I, miss?" A young man greeted her, putting his hand on the chair. His warm smile disarmed her immediately, and she returned his smile.

"Good morning. Please, have a seat," she said delightfully. "Who might you be?" She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward a little.

"Just a passing stranger."

"Well, handsome… Did you come here only because this is the only available seat?"

"No… I came because I took notice of you," he answered with a spark of energy in his eyes. Flattered, she leaned forward some more, placing her elbows on the tabletop and placing her chin on her crossed fingers.

"Reeeaaally~?" she asked teasingly as his plate of bread and sausages arrived. "_Who_ would take notice of me?"

He swallowed his food. "You're beautiful. You speak excellent German, but with an accent. I know you're not from around here… Miss Irene."

"Impressive. But you'll have to do better than that…" she grinned devilishly. "I'm not easily seduced."

"Don't worry. I'm pretty good at impressing women… or at least, I arrogantly think so."

Irene giggled. She felt that his behaviour was cute, and warranted some attention. "What are you doing in Berlin?"

"You mean to ask why I'm still _stuck_ in Berlin," he rephrased for her. She nodded, almost laughing out loud. "Well. The wine; the women. What can I say?"

"You're cute," she stated. "But I'm a reporter and I know when someone's just flirting. Come on; tell me the truth."

He grinned, partaking of his meal. "To be honest-"

Irene could not see. She hacked and coughed. She was knocked off her chair, and felt vibrations under her feet and bum. Her ears rang and hurt. "Irene!" she heard. She coughed again and heard her name being called. "Irene, we're leaving!" She felt herself being tugged away from the floor. The man had not answered the question.

Saved by the shell.

Irene followed the man into the woods outside the city. She was unsure of what to do, and he, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what to do. There was not much of a choice, anyway. The city was under enemy attack, and she would be in danger if she stayed there.

The gentleman ducked into the trees, letting go of her hand. She stood, stunned, as he brushed aside some vegetation and walked into it. "You can look if you're not shy," he said to her. He began taking off his clothes, using his shirt as an improvised mat to keep his feet clean.

"What are we doing here?" she enquired. Why he was stripping, she had no idea, but she did not feel at all threatened. He reached into the ferns and pulled something from underneath them. Judging by the way he carried it, it seemed to be rather heavy and bulky. Her gaze glided from his almost bare body to the bag he was opening.

"You'll see." Not the type to feel like she was intruding on anyone's privacy, Irene watched him put on olive drab trousers, muddy black boots and then – of the same olive drab – a shirt. He pulled on some webbing, donned a helmet and finally, slung his rifle over his neck.

Irene was not too surprised – initially. She scanned him once, and then twice, from head to toe. A habit she had developed as a reported was to observe all the little details of a person's appearance. Her eyes focused on his right shirt sleeve, just below his shoulder. She ignored the bars on his shoulders indicating his rank of Lieutenant. Irene was mesmerized by the red-eyed wolf, fangs bared and body curled around the full moon, as if defending it.

Now she knew his identity.

Bastard of Whiskey Company.

Lieutenant Sigurd Green.

"You're with the Bastards," she said, suddenly feeling more interested. Reporter mode, turn on! "Is it true that your leader is former Imperial general Radi Jaeger?"

"I can't answer your questions, Miss…"

She put her hands on her hips, with a look on her face that said 'Aha! I've got you!'. "You never did answer when I asked about what you're doing in Berlin. Now that I know your identity, I have all the more reason to ask," she said, now louder and slightly frustrated. The fact that he was a uniformed and armed soldier did not help her to calm down.

He took in a deep breath and shifted his stance a little. "I'm looking for my family." He looked her in the eyes. "My father, wife and child are in Berlin. I haven't been able to find them."

"I see. But what then, even if you did find them?" she made observations of his facial expression. It was stern, but defeated. "Would you, one soldier, be able to save them?"

"No. I hadn't really thought about that," Sigurd honestly replied. "I'm no genius. Just a man in green rags with a rifle. I just want to see my family." They made eye contact, and Irene broke it, looking to the right.

"I don't blame you." She peered into his eyes again. "I would have done the same…"

"There!" yelled a loud, masculine voice. Tree bark and wooden splinters flew about in the air. Sigurd pushed his rifle to the side and tackled Irene, taking her to the ground. They landed in a rather… compromising position, with his face in a place where it should not be.

Irene was about to ask him what he was doing with his face in her shirt, when she saw him rise to a crouch and bring up his rifle. "Cover your ears!" He braced the rifle against his shoulder. She obeyed his instructions. He squeezed the trigger, returning fire. He unslung his rifle and finished the remaining rounds. "Hang onto my neck. Interlock your fingers," he said, hovering over her. Wasting no time, she held on tight. "Whatever you do, hang on. Your life depends on it."

Quickly crawling on fours with his rifle in his right hand, he dragged her away from immediate danger. Once he felt safe, he got up and pulled her to her feet. He ran. She followed. They went deeper into the woods. Irene felt as if her heart was going to burst, at the rate she was running. Fear of death, however, propelled her forward.

"Hands up! Stop or I will shoot!" yelled a voice. Irene stopped dead in her tracks, heart threatening to break through her ribcage. She could feel and hear her heartbeat in her ears.

"Let her through – we've got company!" Sigurd grabbed her wrist and pulled her along. She followed him, disappearing into the dark of the woods. There was absolute silence.

Only the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves could be heard now in this forest. The earth drowned out the sounds of racing hearts beating at twice the normal rate.

"What do you think, Boss?" asked a panting woman, with her hands on her weapon. Next to her stood an Imperial lieutenant, looking good in their new black fatigues. It was quiet.

"I know they came through here. I saw them."

"I see their tracks," she said, crouching and putting a finger on the soil. "Still soft. Fresh."

"Feuer, Faust, go left," commanded Boss. It was too quiet. They couldn't have gone very far in such a short time.

"**That won't be necessary."**

Boss panicked and reached for his weapon. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the forest exploded into violence, blood and flying lead. The entire group was cut down. The dust settled, and the pungent smell of death and gunpowder faded away. Silence returned. Camouflaged men and women rose, revealing where they had previously rendered themselves invisible with illusions and stillness.

Disposing of the shrubs and ferns that they had used earlier, they regrouped. Filipova spoke to Sigurd. "We have to relocate. Regroup and move. Leave the woman."

"We can't. She'll be killed."

"Lieutenant Green, that is an order. We do not have the resources to support even one more person."

"We'll have to. This is n't something personal. I have a feeling that she'll be a useful ally to us."

"I won't argue with you. Let the Captain decide."

Irene, overhearing this, was quite excited. She was about to meet with the leader of Whiskey Company, made infamous by its ability to send Imperial troops scurrying to safety at the mere mention of its name. She was curious. Was it who she had heard it was? Would he be as others had described him?

Suvorov watched Sigurd escort the blonde woman into the command post. The amused man looked at Jaeger. "Pretty, isn't she?" Jaeger nodded approvingly.

"However, I foresee a problem…" the captain said, getting off the helmet he was sitting on. The command post was a shellscrape, field pack and helmet. Not much, but they were not staying long.

"Good day, Madam." Jaeger offered his hand.

"General-" They shook hands.

"Captain now," he interrupted with a humble smile, glancing at the rank on his shoulder for a moment. He made a mental note to remove them later.

"I'm sorry. Captain." He let go of her hand. "I have questions for you."

"That, my lady, will have to wait. We're about to move out. Our men – 21st Division – have secured the airport."

***********

Squad 7 spent their evenings in the Militiamen's Mess. Although Fort Randgriz was just down the road from Castle Randgriz, they were on standby, and thus not permitted to leave the camp even if they had free time.

"Nothing beats a good beer after a long day!" declared Largo, relaxing on the sofa. He loved his vegetables, but he truly enjoyed a good beer.

"Let's have a bet!" taunted Rosie, with reddened cheeks and a deck of cards in her hand. "We'll play poker. If I win, you'll stop eating vegetables for one day. If I lose… I'll walk around the base once – naked."

"What?! I can't stand it when I don't eat my veggies!" Largo exclaimed, the corners of his lips peeling back. He seemed more disturbed by the prospect of having no vegetables than by the fact that Rosie might parade her nude self around the camp.

"And I have my pride. I'm not walking around base with nothing on."

"Hrm…" Largo weighed his options. If he lost, he'd have to give up on veggies for one day. If he won, Rosie would have to walk around in the nude… While tempting, this wasn't what he wanted for his friend of many years. It also meant she was feeling lucky. If he refused the challenge, that would be a challenge to his manhood lost. His pride would not allow that. "F-"

The black-and-white television came on. Their attention was diverted to the screen. "Over the past four days, the Empire's First Army has penetrated Germania's defences, marching straight for Berlin. They have steamrolled everything in their way, and true to Kaiser Sieghart's word, Berlin has been captured. Once there, he made the following speech:

"Citizens of the Empire! My friends and fellow countrymen!" The Kaiser addressed the Empire in an internationally broadcasted speech. The crowd – cleverly placed ladies and gentlemen of the Imperial army in plain clothes – broke into thunderous applause before their young Emperor.

He raised his hands, palms down. There was not a sound. The world waited in intense silence. Precious words of the Kaiser were about to reach their ears… He enjoyed doing this. It kept people on their toes.

"We've come a long way. Generations ago, Europa belonged to us. The rebels of the Federation took it from us. Beaten but not defeated, we soldiered on. We waited. And now we have regained our rightful place. This is where we belong – **Germania**, birthplace of the Empire! This is our Promised Land. And today, it has been delivered. My brothers and sisters--" He paused, his heart bracing for the carefully planned and worded finale. The world held its breath. The Kaiser smiled. "--we are home."

There was silence. It was so heavy that all who were watching moved not a muscle, not even daring to take their eyes off the Kaiser. Time slowed, almost stopping. A single clap was followed by another. And then two claps at once. Three. Four. The crowd broke into thunderous applause.

Alicia turned off the television, inviting angry shouts of "Hey! We're watching that!"

"Haven't you seen enough?" she asked putting a frown on her pretty face. "We're soldiers of Gallia. We shouldn't be watching Imperial propaganda broadcasts. We should instead be getting ourselves ready for war!"

"Nobody's happy to have to fight," said Largo as he placed his eyes on her, finishing his mug of Kloden Lager. "The least one can do is to make the most of it. Learn what you can about your enemy. This is one way of doing that."

"As it is, we don't exactly stand much of a chance. We're isolated from the rest of Europa. The Imperial Navy has imposed on us an embargo, blocking our ports and harbours. Facts don't change even if you learn about them," she snapped before abruptly storming out of the Militiamen's Mess.

"What's her problem?" asked Rosie, absently playing with the Queen of Hearts in her right hand, shuttling the card between her fingers.

"She's stressed out," replied Largo. "Her baby's in the care of someone else. She's a mother now, Rosie. She wants to be able to protect her child and show her love. But she can't."

Rosie nodded without a word. Not a mother herself, she could not fully understand. "Let's let her go, then. Anyone up for a game of cards?"

"Sure," replied Largo, always eager to bond with fellow soldiers. He grabbed another mug of Kloden Lager, and went back to the table. Other familiar faces, such as Marina Wulfstan, Zaka and the Bielert Brothers, joined her.

Welkin was glad to see them still getting along. He had heard from Oscar that his medical studies had been interrupted, and he had been pulled back into the militia. Marina had returned looking much healthier and tougher from a few years spent wandering in the mountains. Zaka was a lot happier as well. He still retained his trademark squint, indicating that he had not given up on engineering and tinkering.

Good, good. He didn't have to worry about them. However… His dear wife Alicia needed some talking to. He left the mess, putting on his cap and pulling his leather coat over his body. He walked into the rain, squinting in an attempt to pick her out.

He wandered around for a while, and eventually did find her curled up inside her bunk.

"Alicia…" She did not respond, only burying her face in her thighs, hugging her legs close to her body. "Martha will take care of our child. There's no need to worry."

"That's not the point!" Taken aback, he shrank away a little. "I wanted to take care of her myself… To raise her in peace. The longer I'm away from her the more worried I become. I want to see my child…"

Welkin looked down and sighed deeply, feeling his heart grow heavy again. Dealing with such negative emotions was not his strong point, especially not when it came to his very emotional, very passionate wife.

"Welkin!" a commanding voice boomed in the hallways over the Public Announcement system. "Lieutenant Gunther! Assemble your squad immediately. You will be briefed in the Squad 7 Tank Hangar."

***

The whole of Squad 7 stood in three rows at attention, weapons by their sides.

"We've been alerted that there's a disturbance to the northwest, just off the coast," said Varrot, pushing up her glasses. "You are the only ones I know of capable of responding to it on such short notice. A humongous flying dreadnought has been spotted over Gallian waters. So far there has been no exchange of fire. The Navy and Air Force are already preparing for dispatch. The Regulars are unavailable at this time – you will move in to provide ground support in the event that it is required."

"Just us, Captain?" asked Welkin.

"Yes. We're extremely short on manpower after EW II destroyed more than half the Gallian military. You've got a reputation to live up to, Squad 7. Do us proud." Varrot took her leave. Once she was out of sight, Squad 7 relaxed and began talking amongst each other.

First the Batomys, then the Marmota, and now this flying dreadnought? What was the Empire up to? Were they going to simply overrun Gallia and bomb it to pieces now? What chance did they stand, really, against that thing? They wondered what it looked like. Perhaps it would be even larger than the Marmota…

"**Pack**** up, Squad 7! We're moving out!"**


	8. It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 08

"What were you thinking, Lieutenant?" Jaeger asked in his usual tone of voice, with a hint of displeasure. "You brought her with you here. You could've compromised everything. She's a civilian, not a soldier. Not even a German."

"I understand, Sir. But I couldn't just leave her for the Imperials. She would've been killed, or worse."

"I wouldn't have left her either," Jaeger said, patting Sigurd on the shoulder firmly. "Did you find your family?"

Sigurd's hung his head and shook it left and right, then brought it back up to look at Jaeger. "No, I didn't get the chance… I met her while having brunch. After that the city came under attack. Lost my only opportunity."

"I see… Then what do you know about the woman? I'm sure you had a bit of conversation."

"She's a reporter. Not from Germania. Not sure where from, though," he said. "She had an eastern Europan accent."

"I have an impression…"

As if to stop them from further discussing her identity, Irene stepped into the room, which had no furniture or lights. Immediately, Sigurd clammed up, saluted, stepped back, turned to the left, stomped his foot and marched away. Surprised by the formal way in which he retreated, Irene watched Sigurd disappear out the door and into the corridor.

"Hello, lovely," greeted Jaeger. His eyes pointed to the doorway for a moment, before returning to make eye contact with her. "He's a little uptight. We were discussing something not meant for your ears."

"It's not a problem. I, however, have questions meant for yours," she said, fidgeting a little. She found him to be a very charismatic man, about whom she knew very little.

"Go ahead," he confidently replied, waiting to hear what she had in store for him. "I have time. What's a reporter doing without her pen and notebook?"

Irene smiled slyly and shook her head. "I'm not asking as a reporter. I'm asking you as a woman."

Pleasantly surprised by this, Jaeger returned the smug expression. "All the better."

"I'd heard rumours that you were the commanding officer of Whiskey Company… Former member of the Triumviri," she said, patting her hair. "Why are you now with the Federation?"

Jaeger paused to phrase his answer properly. "I'd like to say that I had a noble ideal of some fort with which to justify it. But no, I don't. It was money," he admitted with a humble smile. "I left the service of the Empire. After my defeat at the Vazel Bridge, I disappeared. I no longer wanted anything to do with war. I wandered Europa, working odd jobs in small towns for a few short years. Then the Empire found me… and I escaped. Where else could I have gone? I ran to the Federation. There, the Federation discovered me as well."

"And after that?"

"I was left without a choice. Life in the Federation is very expensive. And to sustain my extravagant, philandering ways, I went back to the only life I know. Having discovered that I was the notorious Imperial general on the Gallian front that was always talked about, they 'invited' me to serve in the Federation military as a captain. They decided that I was overqualified for officer cadet school, and just put me in a short course to learn about the Federation military's system. Thereafter, I was put in charge of Whiskey Company."

"So what did you learn about the system?"

"The Federation military is full of red tape and 'proper procedure'. The way things are done is extremely inefficient. Every single thing has to be accounted for, which is a fair practice, but it is often overdone. The most overworked people in the Federation are not the frontline fighters, but the clerks and supply staff. In essence, the system is quite self-destructive. It prevents a lot of work from getting done when it needs to be done, and results in punishments. And if someone tries to get around the paperwork and is found out, it also results in punishment. I'm willing to bet that the number of men in the Detention Barracks in the whole Federation put together would amount to at least one division's worth."

"What a waste of manpower. What about the people?"

"The Federation military hates the press. Soldiers in general hate the press. They sensationalise stories to sell them, in order to stay afloat in turbulent economic times. I can't say much more. If the Federation happens to make a return, I still want to be on their payroll." Jaeger laughed. Ever the pragmatist, he was unashamed of his actions. Who could fault a man for earning his keep?

Irene ignored the criticism of the press in general. She was different. "How boring. Come on, after all these years, I'm sure you've got something to say."

"Captain Jaeger, report to the bridge now," the Colonel's voice boomed over the Public Announcement system. "And bring the woman along with you."

Irene sighed, and Jaeger could not contain his amusement at her exaggerated disappointment. He chuckled. "Later, miss. I will give you the interview of a lifetime. Come." He took a step past her.

Watching his retreating back, she began to understand the rumoured attraction that women seemed to have for him. The pleasure he took in conversation spoke volumes about his character. He truly enjoyed the presence of a woman – and women like that. His deep and confident voice, combined with his ability to adapt and his capacity to laugh at his mistakes, told her that he knew enough about himself to feel secure about allowing others to know his weaknesses. He was direct without being rude. She saw and felt his desire for romance. Everything about him was pure romance… even if sometimes it could be a little cheesy. She let him say and do things that she would not allow other men to – simply because he was honest.

*****

Marberry Garrison

Marberry

"Turn out! Everybody to your stations!" yelled the Sergeant Major of the Garrison. "Man those guns!" Instantly the entire garrison was on the move.

Largo was deeply impressed. Squad 7 moved into the parade square, falling in before the Edelweiss. Lancers held their monstrous tools of destruction high against their shoulders. Largo was their section commander, being the most experienced Lancer. They were the 3rd section. The 1st section was made up of scouts. Section 2 comprised of shock troopers. Section 4 belonged to the snipers and Section 5 was made up of engineers and medics – support personnel.

Welkin stood atop the Edelweiss, Alicia by his side. "Squad 7! Standby for orders!"

Alicia was Platoon Sergeant and scout section commander by training. She said nothing, while Welkin briefed the squad on the situation. Her mind filtered out all the information around her. She thought only about her daughter Isara. She loved her, for the baby was part of herself. Isara was everything like her – from the hair, to her strong character. When denied what she wanted, she wouldn't cry. She would simply frown and stare at whomever had offended her.

This place was also where Isara Gunther – Welkin's sister – had been killed. It was no honourable death. She was killed in cold blood, by a sniper from far away. She, too, was a strong woman. Despite being a Darcsen- and thus a popular target for racism – she made many good friends, and did her job well. She never got angry at them, choosing to forgive those who offended her. Such people are a rarity.

"Alicia!" Welkin called, patting her on the shoulder.

"Eh? Oh… I must have gotten distracted."

"You need to focus now, all right? I need you here with us."

"All right," she replied with a nod.

"Gentlemen, do NOT fire on the aircraft. I say again: NOBODY is to fire on the aircraft unless they'd like to spend the next two days in the stockade," warned the Sergeant Major. He picked up the handset from the signal set on his signaller's back. "Unidentified aircraft, this is the Marberry Garrison. Identify yourselves or we will fire upon you. Over."

There was silence. The only sound was that of white noise from the signal set. The Sergeant Major decided to try again. "I say again: Unidentified aircraft, this is the Marberry Garrison. Identify yourselves, or you will be fired upon. Over."

Once more, there was silence. The intimidating, sleek figure of the airborne warship grew larger with every moment, an indicator that it was approaching steadily. The Sergeant Major grew impatient. He could not stand it when people ignored him. Women, in particular.

"All guns, load and ready!" Every team manning the anti-aircraft artillery loaded one shell into the tube, turning handles to adjust their aim. All of the Marberry Garrison's four 88mm guns and six 40mm autocannons were trained on it.

"Marberry Garrison, this is the Peregrine of the Federation military," the radio spouted. "I say again-"

"Peregrine, this is the Marberry Garrison. Authenticate."

"I authenticate: Foxtrot-Echo-Delta-Two-Niner-Two-Lima.

"WRONG." He looked at the gun commander, who nodded and looked at his men. They adjusted their aim.

"Hold your fire, Gallia!" a female voice cried out.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

"Saving us! This is Irene Koller," she announced. "I am unharmed. These men are from the Federation 21st Division. They rescued me from Germania when the Empire attacked."

"They sent an entire division to rescue one Gallian reporter?" asked the Sergeant Major. Some chuckled at this comment.

The response came from a much manlier voice. "No. We happened to come upon the lady as we escaped. May we speak with someone who can authorise us to land?"

"Son, my Eighty-Eights are all the authority you're gonna need." And he was right. 88mm guns were a frightening piece of equipment. The Imperials invented it in response to the modern airplane. The Gallians did the same, not willing to lose the arms race.

_That voice sounds familiar…_ Welkin thought to himself. He had thoughts about some radio transmission in his head, but he couldn't understand why. Perhaps he had come across a foreign radio transmission once by accident.

"Give me a good reason why you should be allowed to land," challenged the Sergeant Major.

"Gallia is short on manpower and is lagging behind in technology. If you want any chance of surviving, the best way out for you now is to permit us to land and allow us to fight alongside you."

"By whose authority are you doing so?"

"Whiskey Company takes its own initiative. We wait for no-one."

Realising that what the other man said was true, the Sergeant Major nodded to himself. "Fine. I'll talk to my superiors. You will wait where you are." He looked at Welkin. "Lieutenant Gunther!"

"Yes, Sergeant Major!" he greeted, standing at attention.

"You're in charge until I'm back. If that Bastard so much as twitches, blow him out of the sky." The old man left the gun emplacement and made his way into the headquarters building.

All eyes were on Welkin. "Remain on standby! Keep all guns aimed at them!" He looked at the huge ship. It was the size of a battleship, yet it could fly. Why and how, nobody knew. It seemed menacing, with large-calibre guns poking out from its side. That thing seemed to defy all the laws of physics… _Can we even really destroy it? It's frightening just to see it. Now we have a standoff…_ He was uncertain as to whether they could take the stress. Both sides had big guns pointed at each other.

Thankfully, it wasn't raining or foggy. They would have seen nothing and allowed the Peregrine to pass them by. Now _that_ would have been a problem.

***

Welkin, commanding the Edelweiss, moved his squad up to the Peregrine's rear ramp. So much of this was foreign to him. Germania's industrial mastery seemed greater than ever.

"Be ready to fire at any time," cautioned Welkin. He thought it prudent to be prepared for any scenario.

"Of course, Sir," acknowledged Rosie. "I never trust a man whose deal is too good to be true." Welkin managed a weak smile. The rain came down hard on them. From here they could barely see the Peregrine, despite being on the Naggiar Plains, a place devoid of trees. Grass, however, had regrown after years of seeing no combat.

He had never seen an aircraft take off or land vertically before. The Peregrine had done precisely that. Regular propeller-driven aircraft were already quite a sight, so watching an airborne warship land without an airstrip was quite a treat. Thoughts of how this was achieved without the vehicle dropping out of the sky like a rock filled his mind. _Maybe it's made of material that's lighter than air._ Welkin smiled. But now he had to focus. The rear ramp, big enough to fit two of the Edelweiss side by side, was lowered onto the ground. _Finally._

"I am unarmed," the manly man in the doorway announced with both hands in the air. "Miss Irene is also unharmed. There's no need for weapons, here."

"We'll lower our weapons when she's safely over here," stated Welkin. He was not one to be careless. "Stay where you are. Miss, please come forward."

"Don't I get an umbrella?" asked Irene. Jaeger chuckled, as she walked out into the mild drizzle. He put down his hands.

"Hands up," commented Alicia, putting her iron sights over his chest. The Gallian was a heavy and unwieldy rifle. Accurate shooting was difficult; nearly impossible when standing.

"I'd stop threatening me if I were you. It would definitely hurt Gallian-Federation relations if we blew each other to pieces."

Alicia said nothing more. She watched Irene cross the short distance from the ramp to their position. _Hurry up a bit… It's stressful in this position. _The closer she came, the more she felt the pressure on her.

"How do we know you're not an Imperial spy or plant?" asked Welkin. He was ready to duck into the Edelweiss and open fire at the first sign of danger.

"Believe what you wish. We're here to help you."

"You failed the authentication. There is a specific code to use between the Federation and Gallian forces. The one you gave was outdated."

"I can't argue with that. Miss Irene is the only one who can convince you, because nothing I say will get into your head."

_Clever. Very clever… He's right._ He looked at Irene, who looked right back at him. "Did they do anything to you? Are they who they say they are?"

"They're the Bastards of Whiskey Company. I personally witnessed all their actions. I even have photographs. She gleefully patted her camera. "You can believe in him. I do."

Welkin gave her a nod and directed her to the back of the line. Now, the decision was his to make. The lives of Squad 7 were a great responsibility as it was. This decision could have a profound impact on the inevitable war to come. Already the Empire was amassing its forces along the border. They were marching here and there, but had not yet crossed the-

"Welkin!"

_Huh?_ He looked around. Alicia had her hand on the turret of the Edelweiss. She hit it with her palm again, getting his attention. "Welkin!"

"Ah, yeah. What is it?"

"You weren't listening. Make a decision."

A familiar voice spoke, filling Welkin with relief. "I'll take care of that. Thank you, Gunther. I'll take it from here." All eyes came to focus on Captain Eleanor Varrot, who confidently stepped forward. The rain and the classy leather coat she wore accentuated her height and slenderness. "Missus Koller, please stay. Lieutenant Gunther, Squad 7 is dismissed."

"Yes, Madam!" He saluted, and fell his men out.

**Fort Rangdriz**

The Peregrine was parked near the fort, and immediately Gallian engineers got to work, camouflaging it to look like the forest from above. They were very interested, indeed, in the contraption. No civilians were allowed within a two-kilometre radius. Sentries and prowlers were posted throughout the woods.

"The Peregrine is to be considered Federation territory. While you are on it, you will obey all military laws of the Federation. We will be working hand in hand with the 3rd Battalion of the 21st Infantry Division, of the Federation 3rd Army. Similarly, they will obey the laws of Gallia while here. Do not hesitate to stop any illegal activity. Captain Varrot said to her squadron commanders.

"Madam, what about supplies?" asked the quartermaster. The lieutenant obviously did not want his job to be come more difficult.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of our supplies. Liaise with their quartermasters. It will be tough adjusting to their presence, but their CO has assured me that they will not slow us down. When the fighting starts, we will see how true that is." Varrot pushed up her glasses. "For now, we need all the fighting men we can get. They just added 900 men – excluding pilots and other staff – to our forces."

Once the routine briefing was done, she had other business to attend to. She was a busy woman, with virtually no time for herself. There was another briefing on routines and standing orders for the Federation troops. Her ears picked up the sound of boots crunching in step. _That's strange. I don't know of any squadron of the 3__rd__ Regiment that marches like that. It's been ages since I've heard such loud and proud marching._

She noticed that she was not the only person who picked up on this. Other officers, too, had gathered by the windows as if watching a parade. Arms were swung in unison and boots clicked with each step the company took. It was the only sound throughout the entire camp, as all stood still to observe. On command, the company stopped forward movement, marching on the spot. Together, they raised their left knees until their thighs were parallel to the ground. Then they did the same with their right knees, and then their left.

We--are the fastest in all of Europa--!

We'll crush the Kaiser's forces with the Ga-lli-ans besides us!

We--are the cra-zi-est in all of Europa!

You'd have to be insane to want to fight a--gainst us!

We--come from a company

Infamous for bastardry

We come from a no-to-ri-ous company!

Fight while we're hungry!

Fight 'til we're bloody!

Fight with fury never seen before!

Whiskey!

**Whiskey!**

Aaaall the way!

We like it here; we like it here; we've found ourselves a home!

A home!

A home, sweet, home!

A moment after the last word of 'home', their boots struck the pavement in perfect synchronisation. It almost brought tears to her otherwise cool and confident eyes. The bang reverberated around the parade square, silencing the entire camp. All were in awe.

The Regimental Sergeant Major, First Sergeant Calvaro Rodriguez, clapped. He was the only one clapping for them. "That, ladies and gentlemen… is how a soldier marches."

**Author's note: **You might be wondering about the ranks, and such. I've taken ranking systems from all over the place.

The Imperial rank system is something like the WW2 German rank system. For the Federation, 3rd Sergeants are the gentlemen with three chevrons. 2nd Sergeants add one chevron in the opposite direction, while 1st Sergeants have two in the opposite direction. Staff Sergeants get a crest in the centre, and Master Sergeants get three chevrons either way, and a crest. Warrant officers have a different rank. They get a half-oval below a crest and a chevron pointing up. Further chevrons indicate a rise in rank.

The Gallian system follows more of the US military. First Sergeants are just below Sergeant Major, and higher than Staff Sergeants. See what I'm getting at? I'm gonna confuse you. D

Actually, the point is to show a little more about how different rank systems can be confusing. It'll be amusing to see how little respect people accord to Orlov, while the entire camp fears Rodriguez, who, according to the Valkyria Chronicles personnel files, "haunts the dreams of soldiers near and far".


	9. Mausville

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 09

"So? What's she like?" asked Oscar Bielert. "The Whiskey Company lady lieutenant's pretty."

"She's more businesslike than Captain Varrot," replied Welkin with a shudder. "The first thing she asked about when the Captain asked if anyone had questions, was whether or not they would be paid. It's starting to feel like we just hired mercenaries."

"Whoa. Scary. How about their other officers?"

"There's a nice, if uptight gentleman. Lieutenant Sigurd Green, the one who saved Mrs. Koller." _Missus. Calling her that is going to take some getting used to._ "Their Company Sergeant Major smokes a lot. He asked me for cigarettes, and I gave them to him. I have no use for them, anyway." _I'd been thinking of trying them out. Too much stress, lately. Good thing he 'helped' me. _"Their leader, Captain Jaeger, seems… familiar."

"What do you mean?" Largo and Rosie shuffled in, eager to know about that man.

"I can't quite place it. His style of command is… excellent. He's friends with his men. They're obedient. They love and respect him. They're disciplined and proud. He seems to treasure their lives very much… It's hard to find that in a commander these days."

Largo smiled. "You're one such commander, Welkin." He firmly patted Welkin on the shoulder. The young officer smiled in response, flattered by the compliment. "How's Alicia?"

"She's better. At first she seemed very distressed. I was too. Martha was able to get permission to visit us, and she brought Isara along. She saw that Isara was doing well, and that they were housed within the castle walls. That's quite nearby."

They said nothing more, breaking eye contact and focusing on a common point in space. They remembered the Isara Gunther who fought alongside them in EW II. Her unyielding, joyful and loving spirit was without match. They had all been connected on a deep level with her… even Rosie, who had originally allowed prejudice against the Darcsens to dictate her actions and emotions.

Even now, the memory was fresh in her mind. Rosie felt a sting in her heart. _If I had opened up to her sooner…_ Isara did have a way with words. She could see deep in the souls of others. She'd managed to open even Rosie's stone-cold heart… and when they were about to bury the hatchet, some Imperial dickhead decided to kill her in cold blood.

It left her feeling drained, and full of regret. The knowledge that she could never make it right only made the wounds in her soul deeper.

"Left, left, left, right!" boomed Rodriguez. Their eyes turned towards the sloppy bunch who were marching about on the parade square. Their worried faces and unease told of their inexperience. "Show some goddamned discipline! Don't let those Federation troops take all the glory!"

"The RSM's tough on the new recruits," said Oscar. He shuddered, thankful that the training he received from his school had given him a little bit of rank.

"He has to be. Someone probably tightened the screws on the Captain. She in turn, tightened the screws on him," explained Largo. He had been in the military long enough to know how these things worked. "Don't be surprised if discipline in the Militia becomes as strict as it was twenty years ago."

25th October, 1940

Fort Randgriz

The Empire begins its foray into Gallia.

"Fall in! Everybody, fall in! We are moving out!" yelled Rosie, waving to her shock troopers and demanding their presence. The trucks were ready and waiting, yet they were taking their time. "Damn it, move! The Empire is invading!"

Upon hearing this, all movement became lightning-fast. She could see the exasperation and exhaustion on everyone's faces instantly turn into eagerness. They could no longer wait. Today was the day.

The Imperials had paraded their forces again and again east of the Gallian border, in full view of Gallian border patrols. The patrols consistently reported seeing divisions of Imperial troops marching back and forth, singing songs that heralded the rise of Kaiser Sieghart and Gallia's impending doom. Gallia's main forces had been deployed to the north and east, familiar with the Empire's routes of advance. Things were literally going south.

From south Gallia, the Empire marched to war.

***

"We'll be sitting ducks. There's no time to dig in. We'll have to fight on the go," Jaeger said to Varrot. Of equal rank, now only experience counted. "It'll be suicidal if we stay where they tell us to stay."

Varrot agreed with a nod. "I share your sentiments." Before looking at the map, she looked at him. He was tall, handsome and looked tough. His heavy breathing, the dried mud on his uniform and the rifle in his hands said plenty about it. Although she had not had a proper shower in a few days, she felt squeaky clean, in comparison to Jaeger. "How is your supply situation?"

"We have enough Gallian uniforms. Some aren't the right size, but we'll make do. It was a good move on your part."

"Hardly," she replied, dismissing the compliment. "My superiors merely decided that it was best not to spend more money making new uniforms for you to wear." Naturally, she made sure that they sewed their Federation unit insignia onto their uniforms. This would make them identifiable up close, but inconspicuous to the enemy from afar.

"Don't worry about our supplies. My company's quartermaster platoon is very good at doing this job."

"I see. Good. Out intel indicates that the Empire's First Mechanised Infantry Division is heading north at full speed. The 3rd Regiment – my unit – been ordered here, to stop them." She pointed to a little town by a river, codenamed Mausville. Jaeger's keen eyes immediately captured important information about the town. "You will maintain command of your unit. Technically, no Gallian officer may command your men, but be advised that as your hosts, Gallia can pressure you into doing things her way."

_Ho, she's a clever one._ "Of course. We are, after all, wearing Gallian uniforms. What is your deployment plan?"

"Squad 7 will be deployed to the south of the town. To the east will be Squad 2. To the west will be Squad 1. All will be in hiding, preparing an ambush."

"Where does that leave Whiskey Company?"

"Your unit will be in reserve, to the north."

"In reserve?" Jaeger didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"

"It wasn't my decision to make. I have superiors to answer to."

"I understand. But you too, must know that Whiskey Company is made up of soldiers. They have seen combat, and having lost family, friends and home, they are hungry for Imperial blood."

There was silence in the tent. Jaeger stood straight, and so did she. "I know that. And I agree. I will talk to my superiors. I promise, you _will_ get your answer." Jaeger smiled warmly and saluted. She returned the salute, and both lowered their hands at the same time. He spun on his heels, dropping his left foot with a bang. He marched out of the tent.

Waldemar Kaufmann wiped his rifle with a yellow rag, blackened by dirt and carbon. They had a break now, and he was going to make full use of it. Instead of having his lunch first, he decided that he would clean his rifle. Others gathered around him, opening up ration packs.

His rifle was stripped into smaller components. The bolt, bolt carrier, firing pin, trigger group, the barrel and the stock sat on a large groundsheet, normally used as part of a two-man tent. Once done with the stock, he pulled the leather case, which was his rifle cleaning kit, over. He put the cloth aside and pulled out five hollow cylinders with threaded ends that would connect to form a long rod. The fifth piece had an eye, through which a thin piece of cloth could be inserted. Alternatively, a chamber brush could be attached in its place.

He had no cloth, and so, used the chamber brush. In and out he moved the rod, cleaning the inside of the barrel. _She's a bitch to maintain, but she's never jammed._ He had felt very annoyed by this rifle, the G-33, when he was a recruit and when he was in training as a specialist. It was a fine weapon, with good balance between range, accuracy and mobility. It was lightweight, but had a solid build and a decent-length barrel.

"Sergeant Waldemar," said Mitchell, sitting next to him. "You clean your rifle a lot. Is there a reason for that?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

"It's not something that I'm proud of," the sergeant replied as he wiped the tricky corners on the rifle, which accumulated a lot of dirt.

"Something to do with the Detention Barracks?"

Waldemar was annoyed. "No, Private. Compared to that, the DB is nothing," snapped Waldemar as he assembled his rifle. It was clean now. The pieces clicked together, and the rifle made a beautiful 'clack' as he released the charging handle. "I was 16 when I first volunteered for military service. I was 18 when I first became Platoon Sergeant. Before that, I was section commander, Third Sergeant Kaufmann, under a Second Sergeant."

"He was my section commander, during my infantry specialists' course. He often emphasised the importance of keeping one's rifle clean. I was lazy. I didn't bother. Then he inspected our rifles. I failed the inspection. He confined me inside the camp, while everyone else in my platoon was given a 48-hour liberty pass."

"That's all?"

"Let me finish." He aimed the rifle at the sky. He pulled the trigger, and the click indicated that the weapon was clear – safe to handle. "I graduated eventually, and got my chevrons. I went to my new unit. Lo and behold, the fates have spoken. The same man was the Platoon Sergeant of 2nd Platoon, Whiskey Company." He smiled to himself, remembering what happened. "We both laughed when we saw each other. It didn't last very long, though."

"Because of EW II?"

"That's right. EW II lasted longer in the Federation than it did in Gallia, too. Together we fought on the front lines. It had only been two months into the war and already we experienced intense combat. My bad habit of not cleaning my rifle stayed with me. I was a good shot, but I couldn't be bothered to maintain my equipment. In my foxhole, I would sleep while he cleaned his rifle. When I awoke, he was still cleaning it. Then the Imperials caught us. Exhausted and feeling like shit in the rain, we fought against them. He used up his ammunition. Then he took my rifle, just as I woke up. I reloaded his weapon, hearing him get two shots off."

"Only two shots?"

"He looked at me. I looked at him. He pulled the charging handle back to clear the jam, and took a bullet to his chest. He fell into the hole as his blood splattered all over my face. There, with his body in my hands, he said his last words:" Waldemar paused, ensuring that all who heard him were listening. There were a few right now, pausing with their tin cans of rations in their hands and eyes fixed on him. "I told you to clean your rifle."

It was rare to see Waldemar emotional. He rarely talked about himself, and never went out with his subordinates when they were permitted to leave the camp. He was often seen filling up notebooks and taking notes of all kinds. He pretty much kept to himself. Mitchell could hardly believe that this was the same man who months earlier had given them a tough time and one hell of a crash course in military life. He couldn't put the two images together: one, the rough and tough leader and two, the almost overly dramatic storyteller.

"You seem to have been close to him. Who was he?"

"Second Sergeant Wilhelm Kaufmann.

My brother."

Alicia placed her ear on Welkin's chest, tightly holding onto him. His gloved hands glided across her hair, now cut slightly shorter than it used to be.

"That was sudden…" he muttered, making an observation out of habit.

"I'm scared, Welkin. I'm scared… I don't want to lose you. I'm afraid to die," she said, hiding her face in the comfort of his embrace. He smelled like stale perspiration, Ragnoline and motor oil, but she didn't mind. She was used to this, after the war of 1935.

They were here at Welkin's command post, next to the Edelweiss. Feeling the solidness of the tank's hull against his back, he took hold of her and reassured her. "I'm scared too. We won't die. We can't. Isara needs us." He understood what it meant to be afraid of death. In combat, seated in the commander's seat of the Edelweiss, he was terrified. It was the number one target of every enemy, not specifically because it was the Edelweiss, but because it was a tank. Anticipation of the coming battle only made it feel worse.

She exhaled deeply. It covered his neck in exceptionally pleasant warmth. "I trust you," she said to him. "I always have."

"You know I will." He kissed her, feeling her soft and smooth lips. She tasted like fire. Hot and passionate. Then she stopped, pulling away.

"Welkin… I don't feel… mortal. I've always recovered quickly because I am a Valkyrur. I'm actually more afraid that they'll separate us from each other." She sighed, holding onto his hands. "They might make me fight as a Valkyrur. I don't want to use that kind of power again. It makes me afraid of myself."

"Don't worry, Alicia. I won't let them."

"Contact! Enemy infantry!"

_Oscar's voice._ Welkin picked up his rifle and pulled his cap over his head. He took off, leaving his field pack by the side of the Edelweiss. Alicia followed close behind. "Alicia, take Section 1 to the west – avoid combat. Gather information on enemy type, strength and heading!"

"Okay!" She split to the left, cutting through the forest. Her left boot sank into the shin-deep mud, and she lost her balance. Bracing against a tree with her rifle slung across her body, she pulled up. The mud clung onto her leg like a perverted old man would. She broke free quickly. The brown layer of sheepskin around her boots was covered in a thick, black layer of mud. She continued to her section's position. _I won't let Welkin down. I won't let the Squad down._ Rifle in her hands and webbing sliding around on her abraded shoulders and waist, she hurried through the woods.

She gasped for breath, feeling the strain on her body as she sprinted in the rain. Her legs were heavy and her arms felt numb. They tingled and grew sore. The steel helmet on her head needed some getting used to. She was fatigued. Her body wanted to stop, but her mind would not hear of it.

"Alicia!" greeted Cherry. "I was just thinking about-"

"No time to chat, Cherry. Grab your things. We're moving." Alicia moved, grabbing the signal set and putting her arms through the loops formed by the shoulder straps. The effect of additional weight was immediate. She breathed harder, and moved. "Musaad, take Section 1 slightly north. We won't take long." Alicia hurried. _Just two of us will be enough._

Welkin picked up the pace, heading in the general direction of gunfire. He could almost feel the vibrations from screaming gun muzzles as they spit bullets at the enemy. It was a complete mess. The entire line was disorganised. _They've been out of action for too long… Five years is a long time._

Quickly, he made observations and visualised a bird's-eye-view of the area. They were facing south. Section 1 – made up of scouts – was to the west, spread out on a knoll and hidden in thick vegetation. From there they could observe all activity along the road leading south, until a similar knoll behind which enemy forces were probably hidden.

Section 2, the shock troopers under Rosie, were deployed in the trees to the east, staggered such that there were two lines of shooters. As in ancient warfare, the man in front could shoot while the man behind reloaded, and vice versa. This, of course, was a purely defensive formation, meant only to provide heavy firepower.

Section 3 was split in two. They were located on either side of the road, in the trees. They would be among the last to participate in battle, if at all. But when they did, they would make the difference between victory and defeat. They were equipped with improved lances, and one Eighty-Eight millimetre Fliegerabwehrkanone, or FlaK. This weapon was developed to combat aircraft, but found a second purpose of equal importance – as a potent tank destroyer. Its long, tapered barrel never failed to make enemy tank drivers switch to reverse gear.

Welkin had ordered Sections 4 and 5 back with the Shamrock and Edelweiss. The snipers could engage from long distances. The engineers would be brought forward if they were needed…

"Boss! Lieutenant Gunther! Your orders!" yelled Rosie, reloading her T-Mag. Welkin cast his gaze on her. She looked absolutely ridiculous with a helmet on her head. Welkin mentally slapped himself. This was the sixth time today that he had lost focus. His mind went into overdrive, acting on instinct.

"Pull back steadily – keep the enemy at least a hundred metres away from you. Wait for-"

"Gunther, this is Alicia. Message, over."

"Alicia, this is Gunther. Send, over."

"Enemy infantry and armoured personnel carriers spotted at Mike Golf Romeo 665637. Company-sized formation, advancing down main road towards Mausville."

"Gunther, roger. Out."

Now that he had the information, he radioed his men.

"Gunther to Largo. Message, over."

"This is Largo. Send, over."

"Largo, prepare to ambush enemy armoured infantry. Is the Eight-Eight in position?"

"Eight-Eight is ready to fire."

"Get the coordinates from Alicia."

"Largo, roger. Over."

"Gunther, out."

The gunfire continued to and fro. It was quite sporadic at this point. Perhaps even boring. There was nothing interesting about this battle at all. It was basically an exchange of flying lead that resulted in no blood being shed. Both sides were equally cautious, and Imperial armoured vehicles were staying far enough away from the line to avoid getting killed.

Something was wrong. Welkin grabbed his signal set. "This is Gunther. Squad 7, pull back immediately to the rally point!"

"Why, Sir? They're not-"

"I said, move!" He shouted. It was articulated in authoritarian fashion, projecting his displeasure onto others. "Rosie, move them back – now!" He fired his weapon a few times, before quickly making his way into the forest.

Rosie was affected by his outburst. Now unhappy, she ordered her section back. He was nice and cool-headed in her memory. Had he changed so much in five years? Maybe. Probably. She, too, had changed. But had they changed for the better? She didn't know. She sighed, and passed the order to evacuate.

"Lieutenant's orders, ladies and gentlemen! Pack it up!" Largo growled, under stress. "Goddamn it, we don't have all day!" The engineers moved the heavy hauler up to the Eighty-Eight, turning the rear end towards it. They were too slow, and Largo, in his ageing body, could not stand sloppy action. "If you keep up this pace, we are all dead. D. E. A. D."

Naturally, this did not help. Nothing got done any faster. Frustration only built up and accumulated with each person who was infected by this wave of negativity. Welkin was their leader, and friend. His emotions would directly affect the behaviour of his squadron members. All it took for everyone to feel like shit was one phrase made up of three words. And it wasn't even an insult.

Largo's lancers boarded the hauler, and they quickly moved out of the area. Ramsey Clement sped the vehicle out of the area, to the pre-established fallback position. They had all returned, and were goddamned glad that they had moved quickly.

The forest had disappeared under a barrage of Imperial artillery. Clouds of sour-smelling smoke formed and floated high into the air, carrying with them clumps of black dirt. Even here, they could hear clearly the explosions.

Welkin took off his helmet and ruffled his hair. He seemed frustrated, judging by how his jaw was slightly dropped and how his face adopted an unusually hostile expression.

Even Alicia felt, at this point, that she could not approach Welkin. She only watched as Welkin sat atop the Edelweiss, gritting his teeth behind sealed lips, watching the Imperial artillery level the beautiful woods as if a giant had trodden upon them.

The whole Squad 7 emulated this, staring in the same direction. Largo's shoulders, normally broad and proudly pulled apart, now seemed to have shrunk. Though he had faced countless battles and grown bigger and stronger from consuming bushels of vegetables, he felt weak and tiny. He quite literally shook with knees made of jelly.

Welkin wiped perspiration from his face with his sleeve. Five years of peace had dulled his senses. He looked at the faces of his squadron members. They looked back at him as if he owed them something. The fact was that he did. They had seen for themselves how close he had brought them to them. How could he have been so stupid?

"Largo."

The veteran turned towards Welkin. "Yeah?"

"Deploy and camouflage the Eighty-Eight on the other side of the river. Rosie, take your section south to the woods."

"You want us to go back in _there_?" Rosie looked at him as if he was insane.

"It's our only option." He turned to the engineers. "Ramsey, get the engineers together. Lay mines in the trees and set up concertina wire along the road."

"Wire isn't going to stop a tank, Sir."

"Ten consecutive rolls will stop _anything._"

Ten rolls. The lieutenant, by all accounts, was right. She imagined the ten rolls of concertina wire, held down by heavy iron pickets, in her head. The first roll would be easily overcome. The barbs would get stuck in the rubber caterpillar tracks. Then the third would slow it down. The fourth would too. By the fifth there would be some creaking, as if the tank was screaming for mercy. The seventh would stop it dead in its tracks. The tracks, road wheels, transmission and hull would be tangled in a mess of contorted steel wires, so much so that it would stop itself from moving.

That was exactly how she saw herself performing. Beating iron pickets into solid ground was difficult, time consuming and physically exhausting. On top of that, she had to deploy concertina wire. Even with other engineers around, this was going to take a while. With Herbert Nielsen on her team, this would take years. By the time they were done, she would probably be 60 years old.

"Bah… more work…" he muttered. _Still as lazy as ever._ Ramsey rolled her eyes.

"No complaining. Let's go," she said, pointing her thumb at the tracked hauler. The Squad 7 engineers now had their chance to shine.

"Ramsey, work under cover of darkness tonight. Marina, Oscar and Emile, cover them. Section 2 will form the front of the line. Dig in deep."

Rosie chewed on the butt of her cigarette. The stress was getting to her. Shock troopers always faced danger. Danger was in their job description. But it was Welkin, the commander who always knew best, who was in charge of them. He was knowingly putting them in danger. Given the stress he was under… could they trust him? He had lost control of his emotions once already. His body was here but his spirit seemed to be elsewhere. What if this happened again in combat? _He's the leader, Rosie. Trust him. You know that he wouldn't get you killed like this._ She loaded her T-Mag and, walking forward, waved her arm once to her front. Her section obeyed, moving forward grudgingly.

Jaeger lowered the binoculars, heaving a sigh of relief. He let them hang by the strap around his neck. He had been observing the Gallians from this mountain, to the north of Mausville. Varrot had kept her promise. But the Gallians didn't agree to it. They wanted Whiskey Company to be 'in reserve'. The commanders couldn't decide whether they would be of good use. _Phew. For a moment there, I was starting to think that a brilliant young commander might have been wasted. Good thing he's still in one piece._ "The Empire hasn't lost its touch."

"Never did. Still using the same tactics. Approach. Ascertain. Artillery. Then move in to clean up the mess." Suvorov breathed out, creating a cloud of grey smoke. It mixed with the cool air, forming a mist of the same colour.

"It's the work of a very cautious Imperial commander. He's a man unwilling to take casualties. Every soldier is important to him. It's hard to find such commanders. Most of the commanders in any army are like Olsen."

A surprisingly pleasant voice spoke. It belonged to Sigurd Green. "What was wrong with Olsen, sir? I've only heard stories about him. Not sure whom to believe."

"Dispense with formalities, Sigurd. By now you should know that if the enemy sees you stiffly standing in our presence, we'll both be shot dead before _you_ bite the dust."

"All right. So what was the problem with Olsen?"

Suvorov sighed. "Olsen comes from a rich family. Not just monetarily. The Olsen family is involved in government politics and there was a long line of high-ranking Federation officers going by that surname. He came in fully expecting to have privileges and power."

"And he came in only a year after I took over. The previous lieutenant in charge of 2nd Platoon met with an accident. A heavy hauler was put in reverse and ran over him," added Jaeger. He shuddered. "He was a good commander with poor character. Olsen was neither a good commander nor a good man. He'd been stuck at lieutenant because of multiple charges of mistreating recruits. Allowing him to stay was a big mistake."

"Allow, sir? You mean, you let him stay? Why?" Sigurd was an inquisitive fellow. And Jaeger liked that.

"Politics, _Green_horn," teased Suvorov. Jaeger smiled, and Sigurd chuckled. He was used to them making fun of his inexperience and his name, now.

"Correct. If I made Olsen leave – which might have been for the better – there would have been severe repercussions. His family can pull strings. And if I see the numbers on my payslip getting smaller and smaller, that presents a problem."

"For money?"

"Yes. Everyone needs to eat, Sigurd. You might not think it's right. I'm old enough to know my own flaws. You'll learn about your own, in time."

Sigurd did indeed feel that it wasn't right. But he was humbled by Jaeger's honest admission. "You're right, sir."

"Why did you volunteer for military service? It's not compulsory unless the draft is enforced."

"I was in limbo, Sir. Didn't have a proper job. Didn't have the skills required to be a factory worker or office manager. Couldn't even get a job as a clerk. So I did what I was good at – I cycled around neighbourhoods, throwing rolled-up newspapers at houses for a few dollars."

Jaeger laughed, amused. "So how, and why, did a newspaper boy become a lieutenant in the Federation Army?"

"It simply wasn't enough money. I felt useless, letting my wife work to feed the family. After my son Sigmund was born, we simply didn't have enough money. So I signed up. Tried out for the OCS. I passed."

"How do you feel now about your decision? Don't be shy." He paused for a moment, letting Sigurd think. "There's no right or wrong answer. Just be truthful to yourself."

Sigurd shifted, scratching the back of his neck and then pushing his rectangular-framed glasses up. "It's lonely. It worries me. I'm out of contact with my wife. I think about her and about Sigmund every day… It's difficult. The men and women of the Bastards are a lot more experienced than I am. I end up feeling inferior to even Private Andrew."

Suvorov nodded with a smile. "That's the way it is. I lost my family because of war. It's fucked up. If I were your recruiter, I would have turned you away..." One more puff. "Why do you feel inferior? Andrew's a malingerer and an idiot. He shouldn't even be here."

"The Bastards actually talk to him, sir. It's difficult for me. They're always amongst themselves. There's a kind of invisible wall that only Kaufmann and Filipova can cross."

"I told you before, Sigurd. You need to learn to take command and be firm," Jaeger said like a father to the son he'd never had. "If you go soft and lose your footing, your subordinates will take chilli and grind it on your head. Waldemar and Katrina can only do so much. The rest is up to you. They can't – and won't – always be there with you. They have just as good a chance as you of dying."

Sigurd nodded. The facts were sinking in, and he was consternated. He had no choice now but to do the best job he could, anyway. _But will my best be enough? Will I be able to lead them? Will they listen to my commands? Will they respect me? Or will they ride on my shoulders and shit on my head?_ Sigurd could say with absolute certainty that he was not certain of his leadership skills.

"Don't worry, Sigurd. Believe in your abilities. You're a good man."

"I'll go check on the men." Sigurd quickly excused himself.

Suvorov breathed deeply. "He's a good man and good commander. He just needs to be polished into a confident one."

"That's right."

"You didn't tell him about 2nd Platoon."

"What about it?" He paused again, and then they made eye contact. Instantly they both knew what the other party was talking about.

2nd Platoon _always_ finds a way to lose its commander.


	10. Woman Soldier

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 10

Marina breathed deeply. She shivered. Her body was soaked through. Rainwater mixed with perspiration. She sat with her rifle in her hands, stock resting on the earth. From here she could observe most of the battlefield, 600 metres away.

This was one of many nests that they had created. She was seated in a foxhole, covered by wood with soil and grass attached to the top. It looked like any other part of the hill. The difference was that she could see them, and they could not see her.

She felt perfectly at home. With all flanks covered, invisible to the enemy, she was filled with a sense of security. It was like heaven, fulfilling promises of inner peace. Here, she was one with the universe.

She never liked working with others around her. Taking orders from Welkin was fine. He always made good decisions. But to be a section commander or have to cooperate with someone else… That was certainly not her cup of tea. She worked best alone. _I never regretted being a sniper. I can make decisions on my own without wasting time or breath on making agreements… or arguments. I move however I like. I spot my own targets. And then I take them out – my way. No criticism. No quarrels._

She'd always disliked how other snipers in the militia always had something to say. Most of it was negative and unconstructive criticism. _Too aloof. Proud. Arrogant. Rude. Unskilled._ Just five of many possible comments. The sniper community was a small one. Everyone knew everyone. Everything, even training, was a competition. Life as a sniper was difficult, not only with regard to the job. They had to be on their toes, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Everything was about whom was better: whose shots were more accurate, who was faster, whose chosen targets had an impact on the battle…

Here, there was no such thing. She chose to shut out such people. It was pointless talking to arrogant, hot-headed teenagers. Five years down the road, it was still pointless. Her rifle would do all the talking she would ever need to do.

Just like it would now.

The signal set she had carried with her came alive. The white noise died, and the silence invited her to listen. With her eyes pointed in the same direction as her rifle, she paid attention to the radio traffic.

"We're getting hit hard!" In the background, above the rain, she heard intense gunfire break out in the direction of Section 2's position. It was Rosie's voice. "Baker red!" The woods, in the setting sun, were lit up by the gunfire.

"This is Alicia – taking heavy fire! Falling back!"

Her eyes not leaving the battlefield, Marine picked up the handset with her left hand. Her right held onto the rifle, finger staying just outside the trigger guard. She continued observing and mentally marking targets. She whispered into the mouthpiece. "This is Marina. Enemy battalion-sized element advancing on Baker. Enemy armoured infantry advancing supported by heavy weapons and tanks. Over."

"They've got some kind of new machinegun. We can't move!" reported Salinas Milton. Even under fire and heavy stress, he still retained some of his usual cool. "High rate of fire, high capacity magazine, very accurate! We're pinned!"

"This is Gunther. Confirm your report. Over."

"It's confirmed," Jane said assertively, taking over the radio. "I want one of those machineguns. Over."

An ear-piercing yelp drowned out everything else. "Rosie's been hit! Medic!"

This was beginning to look like a problem. _What's Gunther doing? He knows that staying there is suicidal. By now he should have come up with some idea…_

"Able red! Able red!"

_That's the western sector. So the Imperials do know about the trail through the grass._ Squad 1 had that section of river to cover. It was a known ford, and they didn't want the Empire using it to get their tanks and other vehicles across the river. Three of the 3rd Regiment's squads had been deployed to hold Mausville… and two of them were trading bullets with the enemy. The Imperial forces knew how important this place was. It was a small town that controlled the only bridge for miles across this river that could take the weight of a sixty-ton heavy tank. It was the fastest way for the Empire to project its forces deeper into Gallia.

"This is Gunther. Marina! Oscar! Emile! Target the enemy machine gunners. Rosie, split your line in two. Stay on the move. Lead them into the minefield. The Edelweiss will cover your retreat. Over."

"This is Rosie. Wilco… Over." She put down the handset and breathed deeply. Warm blood stained her blue fatigues red. She had taken a hit through the lower right of her abdomen. Nothing too serious in comparison to other wounds, but it hurt like the second day of her period. Maybe a little worse. "Salinas! Move with Jane and Vyse!" She winced as she picked up her weapon.

"Okay! We're low on ammo, though!"

"Just get out of here!"

Marina breathed out. With her left hand she turned the dials to adjust her scope's settings. Click. Click. _Five hundred metres. Wind. Gravity. Lead time. Safety off._ The machine gunner put down his weapon, deploying the bipod while his buddy put the ammunition box down next to the weapon. The gunner pulled the charging handle a few times, while the other pried open the box. _Good. He's not going to move._

Her ears were hammered. They rang, and all was quiet. She heard nothing else. His head was punctured on this side. Out the other, white fragments and a spray of red burst from his skull. His buddy dropped the belt of a hundred rounds and looked at him. She pushed the bolt forward, ready for her next shot. She laid the crosshairs over his head. She gave a little allowance for gravity over long distance, and subtracted an eighth of the distance mentally, compensating for the effect of shooting downhill. He looked in her direction. The last thing he saw was her muzzle flash. And then, in slow motion, he fell face-first into the mud with two holes in his head.

Had he been wearing the old Imperial uniform, he might have had some chance of survival. The new uniform was designed to provide more comfort and greater mobility. From what she had heard, the Kaiser had a completely different idea of warfare. And it was obvious.

"Charlie red! Charlie red!" the signal set barked. Marina completely covered the hole, just lightly tugging on the cover. Then, she loaded the next round into her GSR and pulled out her pistol, cocking the weapon. She lay with her head next to the handset, so that she could listen to reports and so that at any moment, she could shoot with her pistol.

_Charlie. That's my sector. That means Imperials are behind this riverside knoll… How did they get over here?_

"Charlie red? How did the Imperials-"

"We're taking heavy fire! Half our people are dead! Need support!"

"Radio discipline! Observe your fucking radio discipline and voice procedure!"

"Enemy troops! Charlie overrun! Fall back!"

Holding her breath unconsciously, Marina waited. She was good at this. As a sniper, most of her time was spent waiting. Waiting for orders. Waiting for targets. Waiting for the right shot.

The wood creaked.

She froze completely. "Oi, Marco. Did you hear something?"

"No. It's noisy."

In complete darkness, Marina could only imagine what the Imperial troops looked like, how they were standing and in which direction they were facing. She gripped the pistol tightly, nervously.

"I swear. I heard something. The earth here doesn't feel like it does elsewhere. Like it's looser. And maybe a little thin… and soft."

"You're always thinking too much into things. Move it or we're dead."

"Always afraid of a little punishment. Pfft." The two men left, but she did not relax. It would probably be safer to stay here for now.

"Lieutenant Gunther, this is Whiskey Six. Recommend immediate retreat. Your escape route will soon be cut off."

"This is Gunther. Roger. Squad 7, pull back to Point Mary."

"Belay that! Your duty is to hold Mausville!" yelled an obviously high-ranking Gallian officer. "Don't trust the Feds! For all you know they might be spies for the Empire. Don't fall for their tricks!"

"Gunther, this is Whiskey Six. We will reinforce the flank long enough for you to escape. Over."

Marina could almost imagine Welkin's situation. _Both sides are right. Must be tough, having to agree with two parties. But it's suicide to stay. _Although she thought so, she was not going anywhere. To go out into the open now was to sign her death warrant. She would wait.

"Whiskey Six, this is Varrot. Proceed to reinforce. All squads, the order has been given to retreat. Over."

Good old Eleanor Varrot. Always taking flak in place of her subordinates.

"This is Whiskey Six. Wilco. Out." Jaeger gave a nod to Filipova and Sigurd.

"Finally!" Mitchell gleefully picked up his rifle. He was sick and tired of waiting around while the Gallians got all the action.

Jaeger sighed. The Gallian lieutenant should have expected the flanking movement. But he was in no position to criticise. Had he acted on his initiative earlier, a lot of Gallian lives would have been saved. If given the chance, he would have conducted this battle very differently.

Whiskey Company was ready. They had been ready for a long time. Until now they had been standing by and just listening to the battle. So near, yet so far. You would not be wrong to call them insane for wanting to get into the fight. Everyone had different reasons for fighting. They not only wanted to see dead Imperials. Knowing that fellow soldiers were fighting against a common enemy while they were just sitting idly hurt their pride.

And fight they did. The 88mm FlaK was the centrepiece of the fighting retreat that Jaeger was organising. From its position, it could see the bridge, and it could turn to face east. Largo turned the gun to face the Empire, while Whiskey Company helped to fortify their position.

"Fire! Let them taste some Gallian gunpowder!" he yelled. The cannon fired, and he shut his eyes as a natural response. He felt the hot air as it was blasted away from the gun and past his face. The resulting explosion threw a group of Imperial troops into the sky.

"Largo! We've cleared the bridge! Pack up and let's go!" said Welkin. The Edelweiss rumbled its way through town, firing bursts from its coaxial machinegun at the enemy.

"We can't! Ramsey's explosives aren't working! We'll have to shoot it!" Largo replied. He pointed to the bridge, and the crew quickly rotated the gun to face it, cranking the handles. It was hard and backbreaking work, operating this heavy piece of equipment.

"It's a tank! Never seen one like it before!" shouted Hector.

Largo took in the sight of a large, boxy tank with round turret and long main gun. It looked invincible and menacing. Nothing like the Batomys, certainly, but tanks on the battlefield were not fun to trifle with. "It doesn't matter." He had faith in the power of the might Eighty-Eight. "Fire!"

The very air trembled as the gun launched a shell the width of his fist at the tank. He had seen what this gun was capable of. When fired at a captured enemy tank, it penetrated its side armour, exploding inside and causing the armour to peel back outwards like flower petals. It then became a broken, turretless pile of scrap metal…

The shell exploded. Largo watched expectantly. After a moment the smoke cleared, and he saw a black stain on the side of its hull. No penetration. The whirring of its turret was obvious. No damage. Largo pulled Hector from the gun immediately. "RUN!"

Moments after they landed in the dirt, the Eighty-Eight was exploded into the parts listed in its engineering diagram… and then some. Running with the signal set on his back, he made his report. "This is Largo! Eight Eight was destroyed! The tank took a direct hit with no damage!"

"Let's get out of here."

"All squads, retreat immediately!" Varrot ordered again.

"Squad 2 is cut off and in need of rescue! Help us!"

"Surrender yourselves. I can't let any more people die. It Kaiser Sieghart is the man that they say he is… He won't allow anything to happen to you."

"Are you _KIDDING_ me?!"

"I have no choice. Orders direct from Colonel Bismarck."

"Screw you all!"

Varrot lowered her head. If she had a choice, she would have dispatched the entire 3rd Regiment just to rescue them. But they were short on troops, and the colonel was a difficult man to satisfy. Maybe she had just made a poor decision. She wasn't sure anymore. It just seemed to be a period where everyone was throwing caution to the wind… or letting emotions take control.

Gallian Militia Forward HQ

"You have _all_ performed poorly," said the colonel critically. Varrot stood at attention, with her squadron commanders by her sides. "You didn't plan properly to counter the enemy attack. It was your job to hold that town."

"Sir! The enemy was far superior in numbers and very well trained. Their tanks were unaffected by 88m rounds. They pitted a battalion against our squadrons and sent a detached force to outflank our defences."

"You have the cheek to tell me your mistakes! You even left the fucking bridge for them to use! On top of that, you allowed the enemy to _build_ a bridge for their troops to cross the chasm over the river. What the bloody hell is your outfit doing? Has five years without war made you all stupid?"

"No excuse, Sir."

"As punishment, you will not be permitted to redeem your reputation in battle until further notice. You will take your squads and assign them to miscellaneous duties. OOTW. Get the hell out of my office. You disgust me."

0300 hours

1st November, 1940

Marina had been in this stupid hole for a long while. She had had to endure thirst, hunger and the need to pee. Now, she felt safer… marginally. Time to move. Quietly, while the crickets called out to each other, she gingerly raised the camouflaged cover. She slid it across the grass and scanned her surroundings.

There was a full moon, tonight. She made a mental note of the direction of light, and the lack of cloud cover. She was still soaked, and underneath her clothes, she was perspiring. The wind swept across the knoll, and she rubbed her gloved hands on her upper arms. It was a cold, biting wind that went straight through her clothes.

Shivering uncontrollably, she picked up her GSR and signal set. She hated the damned thing. It would help if the brilliant engineers at the Arsenal could develop something lighter, of equal or better capability. Until then, she would have to lug this ten-kilogram piece of crap around. She would be held accountable for equipment that she was allowed to use. Signal sets were very expensive pieces of controlled equipment, too. Her pay as a part of the militia would probably allow her to pay for it in full after about… two years. Pay packages were better for married personnel.

She took in a deep breath. Weapon slung over her neck, she searched for a clear area in the grass or bushes. She set the heavy brick of a comm set down, and dropped her trousers. While she answered nature's call, in her hands was a loaded rifle. More than anything, she felt vulnerable, having to do this in the open. She wanted her body to just hurry up and be done. The cold wind blowing against her skin was getting to her.

It took a while, but once done, movement was lightning-fast. Her trousers came back up, and she pulled the heavy thing back on. As she walked away, she considered giving it an insulting yet endearing nickname. She moved slowly, crouching in the vegetation and duck-walking towards the north. Her target was one of the tributaries of the Vazel River. Following it would lead her back to Randgriz… eventually. To the northeast was the Kloden Wildwood. She'd navigate north using the river, but it wouldn't be so easy. There were mountains running along it, among other obstacles. That, and the Empire would probably advance north faster than she could travel.

But it wasn't going to stop her. She began her long trek into the darkness. Sharp eyes were a blessing that she was glad to have. She could see well even in near-total darkness. She went down the side of the knoll and into more trees and bushes for cover.

"Marco."

"What?"

"Are you serious about that girl?"

"Well… yeah. She's cute. I'm telling you, I'm in love."

"Or at least your third leg is."

Marina froze. Quietly, she stooped low, putting her hand on the ground and then lowering her body. She listened in absolute silence, not moving a muscle. All her equipment weighed heavily on her, and it was uncomfortable, to say the least. All the weight compressed more than just her lungs. Her breasts were pushed into an uncomfortable position, but she could only endure, now. Sometimes she wished she hadn't been born a woman.

"Man, yours is the one that's active. You can't keep yourself from sticking it into every girl you can find."

"We might die, man. I'm not dying a virgin."

_This duo again._ She formed her own opinions of them as she listened, keeping her nose close to the ground and taking in the smell of nature. She took shallow breaths, not wanting to be heard.

"Stop here. I need to pee."

"We're already behind schedule. We'll have to prowl faster later."

"I've had quickies in between battles. Don't worry. The sergeant's not going to find out that we're late." Zip flies came undone, and Marina could only hope and pray that what she feared might happen would not happen. Two flowing yellow streams made contact with the ground, right next to her left arm. _Sick._

"Man! That stinks. Didn't you drink any water at all?!"

"More beer than water. Ooh, yeah… feels good."

_Smells bad._ She would move if she had a choice. But any movement could startle the two men… an unnecessary risk. She hated men who behaved like barbarians. She could barely stand the smell of their waste.

"You know you've had too much to drink when your piss smells like beer." The person who was apparently Marco pulled up his zipper.

"Bah. Kloden Lager smells like piss anyway. I don't understand the Kaisers' obsession with Gallia. The previous one let Maximillian run wild here. Toyed with so many lives. Now Kaiser Sieghart's moving on Gallia too."

"Just gotta learn not to think, man. We're soldiers. Not politicians."

"Yeah, you're right…"

Their footsteps faded away. Still a little shocked, Marina took in a deep breath to calm herself, and immediately regretted it. _It stinks._ Ugh, that stench. She squinted, and then continued on her way, getting back up. She adjusted her shirt and brassiere, finally relieved of the irritation. This was definitely bad for her health. She sighed. The life of a female soldier… Periods, falling hair, emotions…

_It's tough being a woman._


	11. Operation Checkpoint

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 11

Eleanor Varrot the officer was a very different person from Eleanor Varrot the woman. She had to wear a mask of sternness, and put work before anything else… even if this meant making decisions that would create arguments, or taking orders that would not be easy to translate and relay.

Every day she faced different people. Colonel Bismarck was directly involved with generals and ministers, who in turn were involved in meetings with Her Majesty and ruler of Gallia, Cordelia gi Randgriz. She was never given explanations as to why things were happening, even though she was an officer. She felt very much like she was merely performing her task as messenger. _Perhaps they look down on the Gallian militia._

Varrot was fully aware that Gallia took a very neutral stand on politics. She would not go out of her way to invade another country, but she would fight against any and all invaders. The Empire had attacked, and that was just the response they were giving… although quite poorly. Their resources were limited. Gallia's low population made it absolutely impossible to sustain both a strong army and strong economy at the same time. She couldn't very well depend entirely on her rich Ragnite deposits. There were limits to how many men could be deployed to fight, too. The Empire now had an overwhelming advantage of manpower and territorial control.

Why Whiskey Company was permitted to fight on Gallian soil, alongside Gallians, was a question mark as well. She could only make her assumptions based on what little Colonel Bismarck would say, and make her own deductions based on information that she could pick up on. So far, it seemed that it was simply a lack of manpower, and the prospect of allowing other people to fight and bleed instead of Gallians.

Even so, Bismarck's orders seemed to contradict that. If that were the case, then Whiskey Company would not have been placed in reserve. Instead, they would have been sent right to the front of the line when the Imperial First Mechanised Division attacked.

Overanalysing was a habit that she had picked up… and not necessarily a healthy one. Sometimes, in the military, the best thing you can do is follow orders. If anything happens, blame higher authority. If still they tighten the screws, one has the option to blame subordinates. Now, while she was not that kind of person, Bismarck certainly was.

OOTW. Operations Other Than War. That was what her entire unit had been reassigned to. Bismarck made good on his promise. She had had to do the tasking overnight, fighting the desire to sleep. All assignments had to be made and the plan submitted to Bismarck himself for approval. It entailed a lot more than saying simply who got what crappy job to do. She had to personally plan for contingencies, plan exactly where the checkpoints should be, and also who took which shift… all by herself.

She put down her pen. That was the last bit of writing she needed to do. She slid her coat and gloves off, and lay down on her bed. There was an hour or two before she had to consume breakfast and report to the colonel with her plan. Every bit of rest counted.

1000 hours

2nd November, 1940

Checkpoint Charlie

Oscar Bielert scratched his leg. There was a swollen lump where a mosquito had bitten him. _Ah, crap. Itchy, itchy…_ His fingers scraped his pants, in an attempt to relieve the itching. If anything, scratching made it worse.

"Oscar, you might want to stop scratching."

"_You_ try lying prone next to a puddle of mosquito-infested water."

"I don't get it. Why are we doing this?"

"Maybe it's because we got owned."

"Or because we don't know what the hell we're doing anymore. It's been a few years."

"I've gotta admit… I've probably gotten rusty."

"And I've probably gotten a little unhealthier. I'm getting rashes more often."

"Don't say that, Emile. It's bad to think that way. Kills a soldier from the inside."

"We've got to stop talking so much. Distracts us from the job. Whose genius idea was it to put us together anyway?"

"Jane Turner, our checkpoint guard commander."

The Bielert brothers shuddered. Stories of her sadism and lack of self-control haunted those above and below her in rank. Now a sergeant, she had become an even bigger headache. Those above her would be even more answerable for assigning her to the job if anything went wrong, and her subordinates felt the need to follow her orders, or immediately face her wrath.

"Something's wrong with that woman." Emile was deathly afraid of Jane. He was always on edge when she was nearby. "Those eyes… they're sick."

"I know what you mean. I know what you mean… Those eyes have no soul. No regret…"

"Something's comin' up. Take a look."

"I can't look away from thi-"

"You're gonna want to."

Oscar sighed, and quickly went over to see what Emile's excitement was all about. Abandoning his assigned post for even a moment could land him in hot water… even if it was just two metres away.

"This might be some trouble…" he muttered, observing the blue truck as it came up to the checkpoint, three hundred metres away. "Rosie took a hit outside of Mausville… she's in the hospital now. Lieutenant Gunther got called away…"

"Yeah. Salinas said he was summoned for a debriefing. He might even be detained, for trial by court martial."

"Sounds bad. But considering what happened…"

"Shh! Look, she's checking the vehicle now."

Jane Turner approached the truck, raising her hand and showing the driver her palm. The Gallian driver waved to her, and flashed his documents stating that he was a member of the Gallian Regular Army, 1st Infantry Division. Her face filled his window, and the blood drained from his face.

"Oi. I can't read it."

"What?"

"Stop shaking."

"… Oh." He hadn't realised that he was trembling. He breathed in deeply, and held the booklet as still as he could manage. She leaned closer, scrutinising the photograph, the details and his face. All this time he had not expected to see her. Now, he was filled with fear… irrational fear. Those were the most stressful six seconds of his life thus far.

She nodded and lightly pushed away the driver's hand and booklet. "Your documents are fine. What are you carrying, and where are you going?"

"Um. Ahh…" His eyes shifted from Jane's to his dashboard. He put down the booklet and picked up a set of folded papers. "Here. This is the manifest, my route card and warning order. I'm carrying wounded Imperial troops to the established casualty collection point…"

He noticed a change in her mood as she picked up the documents, flipping through them. She seemed… delighted. In a sickening way… The way she stared at each word of the manifest made his stomach churn and he felt as if his guts were going to pour out of his mouth. That awful, dreadful smirk…

"Miss… If you'd please hurry, I need to get them to their destination – quickly." She returned him the documents, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He put them together with the booklet containing his identification, and prepared to move through the checkpoint. _Phew. I thought she was going to give me trouble…_

He saw out of the corner of his eye that she went past his vehicle. Immediately, panic gripped him. He looked out the window, past the red cross painted on the canvas tarp pulled over this truck.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" He heard the cocking of a T-Mag, and quickly dismounted the vehicle. _Oh, shit!_ "Hey! What's with the guns?"

"You're transporting the enemy. The less of them we have around, the better."

"They're wounded! I'm under direct orders from the Army to transport them to their designated location, the access to which _you_ are controlling. Your job isn't to decide whether they live or die. Let me through and I'll pretend you never pulled your weapon out."

"So what if I did? I'm not a fucking MP. These bastards just made my life more miserable and boring. What's a little stress relief? Come on. Don't worry. I'll make sure to help you clean your truck up."

"N-no, thank you, miss. Please let me get on my way. I'm late."

"Frankly, I don't care." _Now's my chance. Goddamned Imperials._ She pulled the weapon up, and the driver turned his head away in resignation. "Don't worry, boys. This'll be over real quick." A twisted kind of smile formed on her face, gradually. It didn't strike fear into her would-be victims. Weapons pointed at their faces were part of daily life.

But the tone of her voice… that look in her eyes… the pleasure she seemed to take in observing her them… It was revolting. One shifted in his seat, his legs twitching. Another shrank away into the corner of the truck, unable to stare into such eyes, which lacked a compassionate spirit. Staring into her eyes was much like staring into the Grim Reaper's. What would you feel like, knowing that you were facing someone who was about to take away your life, and there wasn't a damned thing you could do about it?

Not only that… that person was going to enjoy it.

"Turner! Stand down!"

_Tsk._ She turned to see Salinas Milton, who rushed forward and pushed her weapon down with his left hand.

"Stand down! This is a checkpoint, and you are only authorised to fire if fired upon. Obey the Rules Of Engagement."

"What's the matter, prettyboy? Trying to impress me? I'm sorry. Saving Imperials is a minus in my book."

"No, Jane. This is wrong. They're wounded and unarmed. Heck, they're not even wearing the armour they wore in the previous war. They don't have a damned chance against you." Salinas gestured towards the Imperial troops, dressed in black rags. She wanted to laugh. "What pride do you take in this?"

"Misery loves company. There's a strange joy in being a sadist. I love watching them squirm as they die… slowly."

Salinas felt a chill creep from his head to his toes. The back of his body tingled, and his hairs stood up. _Good God! What kind of woman has she become over the past few years?_ "Jane, you are sick. Sick! Stow that shit. You can do whatever you like in private. But though we are militia, we are still soldiers in service of Her Majesty. Act like a soldier. Be professional."

"Hah! Professionalism. You make it sound so nice, dear boy." Jane laughed out loud, and it did not influence anyone else into laughing. If anything, it made them shudder with disgust. "You're so passionate about being a soldier, Salinas. Why don't you take over as guard commander? I'm _sure_ you'll do such a good job."

"Don't challenge me, Jane. I will." Salinas turned to the driver. "Get on the vehicle. You can go." He then turned to Jane, who looked at him and raised her eyebrows as if to ask sarcastically what Mister Milton's orders were. "Jane, open the gate."

"Yes, Master," she joked, walking towards the gate. She put on the engineering gloves, and pulled the concertina wire aside. The truck passed, and she put it back, dragging it across the ground. The wire was heavy.

Salinas cleared his throat, and announced that he had just taken over as guard commander, until further notice. Jane nodded to confirm this, and immediately all were filled with relief. Oscar and Emile Bielert received the message via their signal sets.

"Phew… that's one situation defused. Okay, Oscar. I'm taking a break now." Emile put down his rifle, and lay flat on the grass and uneven earth. "Wake me up in an hour."

"… What? You're taking a break? So I'm doing the work now?"

"Yeah. You're the healthier one."

"I'm _tired_, man."

"Yeah? So am I." Emile shut his eyes and rolled onto his side.

Oscar sighed. _Why am I always the one who gets the short end of the stick? Even from my own brother… What the hell!_

The day went by slowly. It was boring, normal stuff. Check. Pass. Check. Pass. Salinas munched on the dry rations that were in the standard 24-hour pack, holding the biscuit in one hand while answering the field telephone with the other hand. "Roger. No more civilians permitted, until further notice. Over."

"Tac HQ Out."

He put the phone down, giving it no further thought. He finished his biscuit, pushed the wrapper into his pocket and brushed his hands against each other to clean them. Back to work. He picked up his T-Mag and made his way towards the checkpoint, standing guard behind the concertina wire. Jane was his lovely assistant for the evening.

It didn't take long for civilians to come by. This was one of the main axes of traffic… and displaced personnel were bound to come around. It was a rather large group, of maybe twenty civilians. Mostly young people below the age of 13, and old people, sixty or so years of age.

"Halt!" ordered Salinas, showing them his left palm. His right hand remained on his weapon. He had it ready to fire, in the event that it was necessary. "What's your business here?" The civilians each said their own piece, creating a symphony of chaos. He put his hand up again. "Quiet! One at a time. What's your business here?"

"I want to go home."

"I was caught out there in the battle."

An old man with a young girl in his arms came to the front of the concertina wire, leaving the small crowd behind him. "Tsarina was left behind in my village… her parents live in the town down this road. I want to bring her to them. Please, young man. I understand your situation. I was a soldier once, too. You have a job to do, but we have families to answer to. Please, let us through."

"I can't do that, Sir. I have strict orders not to allow civilians through this checkpoint until further notice. Please turn back. Try again tomorrow... and bring along your documentation. You might be allowed to pass. But for tonight, there's no chance at all. I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous. Look at us! Look at her!" Salinas' eyes were upon the old man, as was the spotlight. He wore tattered clothes with holes small and big, and had ripped bedsheets wrapped around his right leg and head as improvised bandages. He looked at the little girl, who wore a poor excuse of a skirt. It was shredded in several places, and was obviously originally white… now stained black and grey.

Dangling from her left hand was a teddy bear, with a left missing arm. The pink heart sewn into its centre had a hole punched in its centre. It was blackened and worn, with loose threads sticking out. His attention shifted to the girl. Her hair was messy and tangled. In some places, it was held down by red, bloodstained bandages. The medic who attended to her did a shoddy job. One of her eyes had been sewn shut, and dried blood hinted at an injury of some sort... With her good eye, she stared quietly at Salinas, her soft and unharmed lips curled back into a sort of pleading expression. _Please don't look at me like that… Please don't..._

He had a soft spot for women. Seeing a female in such a plight made him feel like he should do something about it. He felt… saddened. _A little girl… probably not even 10… shouldn't have to go through this. She shouldn't. I'm the guard commander… Let me try._ "Sir, stay here. I'll call my boss." He looked at Jane, who nodded in mock obedience, and went to make contact with his superiors.

Jane stared at the crowd, who stared back at her. Her eyes were colder than ice. It made the old man shiver, and the little girl hid her face in his neck. _Huh. Who cares about a bunch of old people and young idiots? They should've picked up arms and fought back or run away in the first place. I don't really care what happens to them, or how they feel about being cut off from their family. That's their problem._

It took Salinas five long minutes to come back. The crowd had grown restless. "What news?"

Salinas cleared his throat. "People! Please, keep quiet. I called HQ… and I'm sorry, but I can't allow you through. It's just not possible today. I can't tell you why, either. But you can't go through. Come back tomorrow."

"Why not? We live here!"

"Yeah, yeah! Come on! Let's tear down this thing!"

"Yeah!"

"Hey! Do not approach the barrier! I will fire upon you!" warned Salinas, pulling on the charging handle. "Step away from the wire!"

"Are you going to shoot us?" asked the old man, stepping forward again with the girl in his arms. He looked at Salinas disapprovingly. "You won't let us through, but you'll let wounded Imperial troops through? They're our enemies, and you help them… but you won't even help your fellow countrymen?"

"It's not my place to say. I can't make the decision. A higher authority decided that you can't pass," Salinas said, defeated. He lowered his weapon, and exhaled deeply. _How did they know about the Imperial troops…?_

"Doesn't matter. We're getting through here whether you like it or not. Screw you! I've heard enough of your excuses. Tear it down!"

"Stop!" yelled Salinas. "Stop or we will fire!" His voice was unheard and his warning unheeded. He yelled one more time. "Let go of the wire and step back! This is your last warning!"

"Go on and shoot us if you can bring yourself to! Damn you, coward. You're such a stickler for the rules!" The old man holding Tsarina in his arms stood yelled back at Salinas while the crowd moved towards the iron pickets in an attempt to tear down the barrier. "You're worse than the Empire. You're lower than those dogs."

Salinas felt powerless and weak. They wouldn't listen to him… why? His finger was in the trigger guard. The safety had been disengaged. But his finger wouldn't pull on the trigger… why? Could he really do this? Could he shoot his own countrymen? What would the consequences be? Would he be put in prison? Would he-

He heard the rattling of a charging handle. Quickly, he turned his head to look at Jane.

_Oh, shit._

"**NO!"**


	12. Wolfwoman

The Bastards Of Whiskey Company

Chapter 12

Marina's dry eyes opened. The setting evening sun stung them, and she brought her arm up to provide some shelter. _I fell asleep... This is bad. I have to keep moving. _She yawned and forced the lethargic vibe out of her head, pushing off the forest floor. She had picked a good, inconspicuous spot to rest, just in case she did fall asleep. But now, it was time to leave this place. She had lost an hour of time just by dozing off.

She slid out of the bushes and walked on. It was tiring to move on her belly all the way… and painful. Here, she was certain that the Empire would not find her. She was two thousand feet above sea level, and climbing higher. On her right was one tributary of the Vasel River and on her left, rolling plains. She had left Mausville behind, marching north on her own up the mountains. It would be easier for her to navigate with a good view of the surroundings.

The cold and thin mountain air was a familiar friend to her. Before EW II, she was apprentice to her father. He was the famous hunter and sniper, Wolfgang Wulfstan. They lived in the Gallian mountains, which started from here. From a young age she had been taught the ins and outs of life as a hunter: Shoot, but don't ruin the pelt. We need good pelt to make a living. Aim away from the head. Stuffed animal heads make good trophies. Hold it tight against your shoulder. Breathe out. It's steadier. Slide your finger in and back instead of snapping it. Take care of your rifle. The cold air will affect its performance. Use antifreeze. Stop using oil and grease. Move fast. Stay alert. Your opportunity only presents itself once. Above all: Be everywhere, and nowhere.

She spent all her time honing her skills as a hunter. From the first day she could hold a rifle, the old man guided her in its use. It was the only life she knew. While other girls were out in town shopping for dresses, she skinned animals under her father's watchful eyes. While they complained about periods, she endured them in the field, hiding in animal skins and waiting for her target. And as they knitted and cooked, she religiously maintained her rifle. Marina was a different woman. She didn't need dolls, money or companions. Just one rifle, one bullet and one target.

She breathed in deeply, pushing herself forward. It got a little steeper here, but she would be at the summit soon. Then once she got her bearings, she would quickly make her way to the next landmark. She was staying clear of highways and main roads, along which the Empire was advancing. But damn, carrying all of this equipment was exhausting.

Uniform, boots, cap, rifle, ammunition, knife… Her webbing and all this basic equipment already weight ten or so kilograms, including water and accessories like camouflage cream, rope, et cetera. Then there was also the field pack, in which she kept her underwear, towel, spare socks, entrenching tool, rations… six more kilograms. Add another ten plus kilos from the signal set, carrying bag and accessories (antennae)… She was travelling with almost 30 kilograms of equipment that put strain on her back, legs, lungs and heart. Not only that, over time, she would develop abrasions.

How she was going to make her way back was anybody's guess. She pushed on despite the pain in her lower back, heading downhill. Just as the light started to fade, she ascertained that she was going the right way. With a deep sigh, she moved on towards the north. Down was just as bad as up. You'd have to control your steps so that you wouldn't go down too quickly. Lose control and it'll be all over. And because of this, the lower back takes a lot of stress. Bending forward doesn't help. Standing straight or stretching backwards doesn't relieve the pain either.

She sighed. Her hands rested on her rifle, slung around her neck. A cold wind was blowing. She shivered. The rain was going… next up would be hail, and in time to come, snow.

It took her a few hours to get to the bottom. Her stomach was empty and angry. It wanted to be fed. She had only one day's worth of rations left, but she would need to last longer than that. She set her self down by the river, pulling out her canteen. She put the bottle into the water, completely submerging it to fill it up.

Though she was capable of enduring extremes, she was still a human. To her dry lips and parched tongue, the water was like honey. Relief! Ahh… so damned good.

**Bang!** She dropped the canteen and hit the ground. She silently cursed, pulling her rifle up. She aimed at the muzzle flash, firing one round. But she couldn't fire any more than that. There was too much fire coming her way. Her eyes turned to her only escape route: the river. It would be suicidal to swim with all this weight on her and the bullets flying over her head.

There were some flat-topped rocks in the middle that could act as stepping stones. She grabbed her canteen. Judging the distance quickly, she determined that she wouldn't be able to make the jump with all this equipment on her body. She had to lose some weight… fast. She weighed her options. She wouldn't dump her rifle. That was the gravest sin one could commit. She could lose the signal set…

But then she wouldn't be able to communicate with anyone from her side. Not only that, she would be held responsible for losing this piece of expensive controlled equipment. She could be charged. And then perhaps she'd have to pay for it. _Ah, damn it._ She slid the signal set off her shoulders. She loosened one screw, and then tossed it into the river. Wasting no time, she held her canteen in her right hand. With her left she held down her rifle. With a running start, she leapt off the bank onto the first rock. Then on to the second. One more jump and she landed on the far bank, having lost no momentum.

She quickly disappeared into the trees. This was the best way to lose them. It was slightly foggy, and the vegetation was reasonably thick. The moonlight did not penetrate the canopy. Reflected light and silhouettes guided her through. She kept running, although she heard no more gunfire. Her legs simply would not stop.

When they did, she found herself quite deep in the forest. She was certain that they would be hot on her heels. She was going up the next mountain. Near the summit was the cabin that she and her father stayed in when they came on hunting trips… it would be good to have a proper roof over her head for a while.

_Almost there, Marina… Almost there._ Her blistered and sore legs carried her forward, pushed on only by sheer will. She partook of the water in her canteen, and continued on her way.

This forest was a dark one. Trees and fog blacked out much of the light. The wooden sentinels looked older than they used to be. Fallen leaves littered the forest floor. These old friends had aged. She remembered her father's lessons about the forest.

Respect the woods, Marina. They are a world of their own. The insects, the animals and even the plants are key to your survival. They give you clues: where to go, where it is dangerous, and where your prey likes to rest… above all, respect and fear the rulers of southern Gallia: the wolves.

Whenever they came hunting for wolves, her father was always very cautious. Here they moved in packs, and that made it dangerous to hunt them. She often watched her father set up traps and bait, variants of which there were many. It was the family speciality. Nobody got wolf pelt like the Wulfstans. It was dangerous business. The wolves were savage killers, able to sniff out even the faintest scents. They could track the smell of burnt gunpowder from one mountain to another.

Up the mountain. It was easier now, without the extra weight on her back. She felt as if she could jump right to the summit. Her familiarity with the mountains made it easier to ascend them. She looked up at the moon. It was beautiful. The sky was clear… Around the moon was a ring of seven colours, and the moon painted the mountainside white. The stars shone brightly. Orion's Belt marked the direction in which she walked.

Her eyes were about to shut. She hurried forward as she felt the cold air gathering around her. Snowflakes floated down from the sky, and Marina shivered. She pushed on, not wanting to get caught in a snowstorm. Each step in the cold was a painful one. She needed shelter right away; she wasn't equipped to endure the cold.

Finally. She pulled open the door, shaking loose a thick layer of snow. The wind threatened to slam it shut before she could enter. Straining her exhausted, slender frame, she held open the door and slipped the rest of Marina Wulfstan through it. The door shut behind her, and she pulled out her pistol and knife. With her right, she held her pistol. The left kept the knife ready to use.

Ignoring the feeling of nostalgia, she crept further into the cabin, keeping her senses sharp. If she spotted an Imperial soldier in here, he was a dead man. The stale air told her that it had gone unused for a while. Ever since her father passed away, she didn't come here quite so often…

Satisfied that the cabin was clear, she kept her knife and pistol, and then unslung her rifle. She locked the door and put down all her equipment neatly by the fireplace. She had left some firewood here before. Hopefully… Yes! She put three pieces of wood into the firebox, two flat on the base and one diagonally across both.

_Firestarter… _She patted herself down, and remembered that she had no lighter. She didn't smoke. She sighed, but she wasn't going to give up. There was no light… it was hard working in darkness. She had to feel around and hope to find something. She felt the floor with her fingers. The matches had to be here somewhere. _Ah! Found them!_ She took off her gloves and counted them. Two matches… Now for the… _Ahah! Gasoline. There's still some left._

She pulled one pair of panties from her field pack and stuffed it into the gasoline container. She let it soak up the gasoline, and then draped it over one of the pieces of wood. She struck a match and sighed, looking at the ill-fated piece of underwear. She was more willing to sacrifice a piece of underwear, than a sock. _This one's my favourite…_ She held the lighted end of the match to the tip of the panties. She prayed hard.

She felt a sting in her heart as the panties caught fire. Was the sacrifice worth it? The wood didn't look like it had accepted her intimate offering… The wood wasn't catching fire. Not yet. She stared a little more as the panties continued burning away, hot and bright. Then she sighed in relief. The wood was aflame.

After building up the fire with a little more wood and stoking, she took off her clothes and placed them in front of the fireplace to dry. She wore nothing. Drying her socks, boots, inner shirt, underclothing and uniform was important. Drying her body, more so. Fungal infections are an unwelcome problem when you're on a long journey. There are some places where one must _not_ itch.

Of course, she was not relaxing. Her weapons were by her side, although she was resting. As soon as the storm outside subsided, she would continue on her way. Her time now was spent consuming one packet of biscuits, which was to last her until she reached the safety of friendly territory.

She fell asleep. She had walked over 30 kilometres by herself, up and down mountains. Not having to crawl the distance was her good fortune. Her ribcage and lungs could finally rest, and she was glad for it.

She dozed restively, but did not fall asleep completely. Once in a while, she would wake up to check on the storm outside. The first few times, nothing had changed. But while she dozed, something was afoot. The howling of wolves woke her. Without wasting a moment, she packed up and got dressed, putting on her underwear, and then sliding on her trousers, socks and boots first, followed by her shirts.

It took her just six minutes. Marina was a fast worker. She had to move quickly. The howling told her many things. _The storm has gone away… The wolves come out to play._ She was good to go. Quickly, she moved. It was not safe.

The snow and fallen hail made it difficult to move. Like mud, they slowed down her movement. Her boots had to rise high before she could take another step. She would soon be over the mountain. _It's almost dawn. Got to hurry…_ Her body had not even started up yet; she was shivering.

The howling came again. Marina panicked, hearing it come from her left. She ran some more, and as she began her descent, she lost her footing. Grunting as she blindly flailed her arms, looking for something to hold onto, she screamed. Fatal mistake.

A group of bushes halted her rapid descent. She put her feet back on the ground and held steady her rifle. In the early light of dawn, she took aim. The majestic, grey-furred wolf bared its white fangs, silhouetted against the purple sky with the moon in plain sight. It advanced. Her crosshairs were placed in between its eyes.

_Pull the trigger, Marina. Pull the trigger!_ She breathed out quickly. The wolf approached quickly, growling. And then she froze, as she stared into its bloodthirsty, savage eyes. She couldn't pull the trigger.

Marina Wulfstan was terrified of wolves.

Bang!

The shot was not hers.

She remained where she stood, dumbfounded. The wolf's body rolled and slid down the slope, stopping at her feet. She breathed heavily, and came to her senses. Whoever it was who fired the shot, he was very close. She heard the shot at roughly the same time that the bullet struck the wolf.

"Don't move a muscle," hissed a male's voice. With a sigh, she put up her hands, holding her rifle overhead. "Who are you?"

"Corporal Marina Wulfstan. G3532626A. Gallian Militia, 3rd Regiment, Squad 7."

"Put your hands down. I'm Corporal Kavi, the Darcsen Devil of Whiskey Company."

She turned around and aimed at his chest. He held it likewise. Indigo hair, chiselled look, slender build… That was Kavi, all right. She had seen him before. And it would seem that he, too, had seen her before. He lowered his rifle, and she did so too. She spoke for the first time in a long while.

"How did I not see you?"

Kavi smirked. "I'm Indian. We spend three-quarters of our time skiving." He turned and walked in the other direction. "The remaining quarter, running."

The duo made their way down the mountain. Not a word was spoken. Kavi knew of her reputation for silence. Davis, however, did not. The moment he linked up with Davis, the chatter was endless.

"So Marina! What brings you here? We got left behind in the retreat. No, wait, I mean we got cut off from our main force." He kept talking and talking and talking… "A little cold, aren't you? Like the weather. Relax a little! It's good for your health."

Kavi knew better than to entertain Davis. That motormouth had not an ounce of wit about him. He was full of empty words, said for the sake of saying. Marina appeared to listen. But he couldn't be sure. Her expressions varied from stone-faced shooter to mildly surprised. Yep. That was about it.

Davis continued talking and laughing, while the other two silently walked through the snow. If anything, he was going to get them all killed. Kavi wished that he would shut up, but that was not going to happen. Davis was a compulsive talker.

He couldn't stand silence. Most of his life he had been without friends. Now that he was in the army he just _had_ to talk to the people who were around him. He sought attention. He wanted approval. He wanted to connect with people, and to be liked. Jaeger was one of the few who really actually bothered. Everyone else didn't give a damn.

Marina eyed Kavi. She was thankful to him for killing the wolf when it was about to attack her. However, she could not bring herself to say any words of gratitude. She was a loner; a proud hunter who needed nobody else. To thank him was to owe him, and her heart would not stand for it.

But Kavi knew. He, too, was a sniper. They didn't need to say a word. He would look at her, and she would look back at him. Their eyes, their lips, their little shifts in posture would tell each other plenty. Long periods of silence had taught them to communicate without uttering a single word.

"You know, Marina, I don't understand the way Gallia trains and organises its troops. Why the distinction between scouts and snipers? In the Federation, snipers serve both purposes. What's the point? Just makes it more confusing, doesn't it?"

"Davis," said Kavi, crouching. "Shut. Up." He laid on his belly and crawled forward, rifle in his hands.

"What, Kavi? Bored without Mitchell to accompany you?" retorted Davis.

Kavi ignored Davis. He talked too much. He turned to Marina, who had taken cover behind a tree and some bushes. "Look ahead. About nine hundred metres away, across the river. To the northwest." Kavi adjusted the knobs on his scope. Marina found a position nearby, while Davis observed with binoculars.

"What the hell is that?" asked Davis, eyeballs on the fenced facility. At intervals there were guard towers, and atop the fence was concertina wire. "Looks like they're guarding something."

"Or someone. Look at the vehicle that just stopped." Kavi kept his eye on the vehicle, trailing after it as it stopped inside the facility. His jaw dropped. "Holy shit! It's the Kaiser!"

Blonde-haired Kaiser Sieghart von Lanzberg slammed the door of his commander car. It seemed as if the car's windows would shatter, given the manner in which he handled it. Two lines of uniformed men proudly saluted their leader with their rifles as he pounded the ground beneath his boots, bringing with him Imperial gloom.

The commanding officer of the detention facility saluted him. The Kaiser came close, his face barely three inches from his face. His back tensed and his legs tingled. "G-good-"

"Spare me the formalities. Where are the personnel involved?" he demanded. The Kaiser wasn't in the mood for delays. He wanted to address an issue, and he wanted to do it now.

"We're holding them behind wire, mein Kaiser!"

"Show me." The officer stiffly nodded and started walking. Sieghart followed him, generals and personal bodyguards by his sides. One look at the Kaiser's entourage and you'd know a giant shitstorm was on its way.

Sieghart was brought to see the people that he wanted to see. Their hands were bound and they remained on their knees, in soft mud and surrounded by concertina wire. They ushered him in with his officers, and the leader of the group was pointed out to him.

"Sergeant Lyudmilla Suvorova, the Kaiser is here to see you."

"Is this the person responsible?"

"Ja, mein Kaiser. She gave her squadron the order to kill the prisoners."

Sieghart pulled her collar as he addressed her. "Explain yourself."

"We don't have the supplies with which to support this many prisoners of war," she replied, studying his face. He seemed in control, despite outwardly expressing his anger. "I made the decision based on that justification."

"Do you not understand the importance of those prisoners? They were the key to what would have been my plan to win the hearts and minds of Gallian citizens. Your killing those captured Gallians only serves to further ruin my already poor reputation. We need the Gallians to submit. They cannot be conquered if they are only militarily defeated."

"I'm sorry to see your plans go up in smoke, Sir," she answered with a sarcastic smile. She had no time for political bullshit.

Sieghart slapped her cheek hard, throwing her onto the ground with the blow. He looked at his right-hand man. "Eisenhauer. They are traitors. Kill them." And then, he slid away.

Eisenhauer raised his hand to waist level, palm facing outwards. This was a signal to wait. The Kaiser had ordered their execution, but Eisenhauer had his own ideas. He knew that the stubborn Kaiser Sieghart would not listen, and so he waited until the Kaiser was out of earshot.

"What the heck are they doing?" wondered Davis aloud. "Their rifles are all aimed up at the sky… and now they're shooting! What the…" Davis focused on the Kaiser with his binoculars. "Aren't either of you going to shoot him? Once-in-a-lifetime chance to change the course of history…"

Kavi placed his crosshairs squarely over the Kaiser's pretty blonde head. It was quite a long shot, at nine hundred metres. He wasn't sure that he would hit; he hadn't yet zeroed his aim and his weapon to the long distance. Even if he could hit, this act could change the course of the war for better or worse… The Empire might stop, or they might just roll all over Gallia. That wasn't really his problem, but…

**BANG!**

The shot wasn't his. Kavi looked to the right. Marina ejected the empty cartridge with a pull of the bolt on her GSR.

"Uhh… guys?"

He and Davis made eye contact.

"The Kaiser ain't dead."


End file.
